


Locus

by Shivani



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Identity Hopping, M/M, Slash, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shivani/pseuds/Shivani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A center or source, as of activities or power. Tom is Harry’s locus, time and time again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written: 12-19 October 2009
> 
> We start very early in Harry’s life, so he shall not be the brainwashed pawn of the Light who names his children after some of his worst abusers. Also: A lot of paraphrasing happens in places, because I am not about to recount long book passages verbatim; This is rather slow to start, I think, and there’s very little dialogue for the earlier years; Fair warning: I bash a heck of lot of people, but not necessarily in a malicious way; This is somewhat inspired by having read one too many stories where Harry goes back to the 40’s to learn about Riddle’s weaknesses, or with amnesia and falls for him, or . . . well, you get the picture.
> 
> Thanks to Batsutousai for catching a number of errors before I started posting this, and to Batsutousai, Jondosh, and Aridynite for helping to spark some ideas.
> 
> Hagrid's accent taken from pouring over PS to see how JKR handled certain words. I don't claim my rendition is perfect.

It seemed like running was as much a constant in his life as pain and confusion were. The boy raced in terror to his only perceived place of safety, his child mind not quite up to the task just then of realizing the inherent fallacy, and flung himself inside, Vernon hot on his heels. The door slammed shut behind him, accidental magic also sealing it.

At the same time his magic tried its best to make the spot unattractive to his relatives, while also attempting to come up with a solution to what the boy actually wanted at that time. In seconds, with a faint sigh and a shower of silver sparkles, Harry Potter disappeared. From that point on, though pleased that the child could not be found, the Dursleys never could quite understand their unreasoning apprehension and unease about using the staircase, not making the connection between it and the cupboard of anathema.

* * *

The boy looked around in confusion. What he was doing in the middle of a street was not something he could comprehend. He did spy a boy of about his own age not far distant, walking away, but before he could even think to say or do anything his attention was taken up by a large, burly man headed toward him. He cringed, far too reminded of his uncle, and began scooting backward.

To no avail, of course, as the man came close enough to crouch down and start asking questions, those he could not answer, as he did not actually know his name. The large man looked somewhat upset by that and questioned him about his family. The boy merely shook his head. The man looked even more upset and eventually stood up, then reached down to offer a hand. The boy stared at him for a bit, then tentatively accepted it and allowed himself to be brought to his feet.

“Well, there’s naught else to do but take you to Mrs Cole,” the man said, then led him away.

Thankfully it was not a long walk. Mrs Cole was a vaguely plump lady with a careworn smile, and seemed to be in charge of a number of children. The boy realized with a start of fear that this must be one of those orphanages that Vernon was always threatening him with, and tried to pull away.

“Now then, boy, there’s no need to be afeared,” the man assured him. To Mrs Cole he said, “Found him on Durand. Boy doesn’t know his name, and naught about family.”

Mrs Cole looked the boy over carefully and nodded, shooting him a small smile. “Well,” she said, “I had a cousin long ago named Joshua, so that’ll do, and we’ll just use Durand for where you found him.” Then she looked back at the man and said, “We could use yours as his middle. . . ?”

The man nodded.

“Right,” she said, then crouched down in front of the boy. “Your name, child, will be Joshua Blake Durand, and I’ll be giving you a home here. There are plenty of children here and you’ll be just like them. If you’ll come with me I’ll show where you’ll be sleeping, get you some food, and introduce you to some of the other children.”

She seemed awfully nice, so he nodded, and transferred his hand from the man to hers.

“Thank you for bringing him here, constable,” Mrs Cole said quietly. “It tears my heart up to see children on the streets.”

“I know you’ll take care of the little fellow, ma’am. I best be off now, back to my patrol.” The man tipped his hat and lumbered away, and was soon out of sight.

“All right, Joshua, let’s get you situated, shall we?”

* * *

Life at the orphanage wasn’t anything like he might have expected based on his uncle’s threats. In fact, it was far nicer, though he had mild trouble with some of the other children, a number of whom were far more self-assured. The boy he had spied—assuming it was the same boy—lived there also, but rarely spoke to anyone. Some of the older boys liked to roughhouse and push the smaller ones around, and being terribly small, Joshua was often a target for them. None of them quite gave him the same feeling as Vernon, so he endured.

He was sitting in the ‘garden’ area out back one day when he was startled by a rustling noise. On seeing that it was a snake he was ready to flee, for the older boys had told awful stories about them biting people and poisoning them, when the creature stopped and hissed at him, freezing him in place.

“ _Human better not have a stick.”_

He looked around wildly for the voice, but there was no one in sight. He turned his gaze back to the snake almost curiously. It was restlessly flicking its forked tongue about.

“ _Human is scared of me? Good.”_

“ _Who—?”_ He went a little wild-eyed when he realized his voice did not sound right.

The snake reared up. “ _Human speaks snake? Human is wizard?”_

Joshua was again confused—that much had not really changed about his life—and said, “ _What’s a wizard?”_

The snake slithered closer and coiled up, only its head upright. “ _Wizards make magic. Normal humans not speak snake. Thus, you must be wizard. How many summers have you seen?”_

“ _I don’t know,”_ he said a bit plaintively. “ _What is magic?”_

The snake swayed for several moments, then replied, “ _Wizard should explain, hatchling.”_

He stayed to talk to the snake for most of the day, only going away to eat, but all he really learned was about the normal life of the average snake, and that his new friend was not venomous. After that he spent a lot of time with the snake, at least until it got too cold for it. It left saying it would return when it was once again warm, for it found him to be a curiosity.

The year rolled by, the cold of winter coming to make all them shiver somewhat. They had warm bedding and clothing, but all of it was secondhand and not exactly in the best of shape. Mrs Cole spent a lot of time knitting when she was not otherwise occupied, much like the other few ladies who helped, even going so far as to unravel damaged knitwear and knit it anew.

When late spring arrived the snake returned, and Joshua was happy to see it again. Something strange had happened over the winter, something he could not explain, but it caused the older boys to dislike and start taunting him, and the girls simply stayed away. Perhaps now that the snake was back he would at least have someone to talk to.

He was explaining all of this when a third voice joined the conversation. “ _Snake speaker.”_

Joshua cringed and started to burrow deeper into the hedge he was hiding within, but stopped when he saw who it was. That dark-haired, pale boy who almost never spoke to anyone was there, gazing at him and the snake intently.

“ _You speak to snakes, too,”_ the boy stated. “ _Interesting.”_

And that was the beginning of his friendship with Tom Riddle. The snake declared that Tom must also be a wizard and capable of magic. Tom, unlike Joshua, was not afraid to stand up for himself. The infrequent times he did speak it was usually to be cutting and hurtful. Even though he did not possess the strength to physically push back, that did not deter him from speaking his mind to the older boys. It seemed that they had also caught Tom, at one point, doing something unexplainable, just as they had with Joshua. From then on Tom became his protector.

They spent a lot of time in out of the way places where the other boys tended not to go, talking with the snake (and others, when they deigned to appear) and discussing the idea of magic. Tom realized, after much diligent effort, that he could cause things to happen as he willed it, though the results did not always match his intent. Even so, it was a beginning, and he worked hard to refine this nebulous something they called magic. And he taught it to Joshua with extraordinary patience and care.

Soon enough the older boys would not come near either of them unless Mrs Cole or one of the other ladies was about, for every time they did something bad, something bad happened back, often acting as if they had no control over their actions, or something as simple as losing their balance and tripping whenever they got too close. As the years slowly flowed by they became more and more proficient at getting this magic to respond to their wills, and the snake was often there to encourage them. Joshua found it very difficult at first, but as time passed it became more and more simple for him, which pleased them both.

It was the snake who first brought up the subject of appearances. It had seen Mrs Cole more than once, though she never saw it, and it asked about the strange colours on her face. After having it explained that the woman was using cosmetics (something many ladies seemed to use had they the resources to, even if it was only for their lips), the snake wondered if magic could do the same. That brought about a whole new goal, and the boys practiced in their secret places, attempting to alter themselves beyond recognition.

Joshua decided he rather liked having pale hair and eyes, but of course that was not something he could ever show. For all they knew Mrs Cole would react very badly and throw them out, calling them freaks like the older boys used to before being cowed into leaving them alone.

Joshua disappeared one fine day in May right in front of Tom’s eyes. They had been practicing more grandiose ideas with magic, not having been indoctrinated in any way as to what the rules were or what should be impossible. Tom was at a complete loss for once, and actually frightened. No amount of magic brought Joshua back to him and eventually his attempts nearly ceased, and he became sullen and withdrawn again.

Around that time a strange man appeared at the orphanage and was led to him, a certain Mr Albus Dumbledore, who claimed to be a professor at a school for those gifted as Tom was. He wondered, even as the man was showing him magic (though why he was using that silly stick was beyond him), if Joshua would also end up at the same school.

* * *

Joshua ended up in a place he barely remembered—the cupboard under the stairs. The only thing that kept him from shrieking in anger and fear was the thought that Tom would be disappointed in him for showing his feelings so openly. Thus, he concentrated on breathing deeply and calming himself, and once he had, realized that all his experiments with Tom had given him the means to keep order. He just needed to believe in himself. He knew that Tom did, and he would _not_ let his friend down. He would have to protect himself, now.

There was light coming through the vent so he knew it was daytime, though not when. It could have been morning given the quality of the light, but it might also be later and overcast. For the time being he pulled a rather bruised apple from his pocket and set about eating, waiting for some sign to give him a clue as to his circumstances.

He waited through the thudding sounds and vibrations of footsteps as they thundered down the stairs, through the smell of breakfast being cooked and the sounds of two males and one female speaking, and through the sound of Vernon and Dudley heading out of the house. Only then did Joshua emerge quietly, stealthily making his way to the kitchen he remembered, and using magic directly Petunia shrieked on noticing him. Her voice was cut off abruptly when his magic lashed out and her expression morphed to one of terror.

“Aunt,” he said, “I’m back.”

She fainted, somehow managing to miss knocking her head against the counter. The newspaper on the table told him it was 14 May 1991, which rather surprised him; it had been 1938 last time he had checked. Delving into his memories and remembering his panicked flight oh so long ago forced him to accept that his fervent wish had caused this anomaly. So it was magic. But that meant . . . Tom was all alone, back then.

He wondered, a slightly hysterical burble of laughter escaping his lips, just what had happened and what was to become of him now.

His aunt eventually woke up and gave him a frightened look, then rushed upstairs to begin cleaning out one of the rooms. Joshua trailed along behind her, curious, and smirked once he realized what she was up to. It came to his attention during the day that she skirted the cupboard fearfully every time she passed it, which meant it could remain a sanctuary for him in case of need, though he hoped it would not be necessary. Even so, he could store anything important in there, perhaps.

When Dudley arrived home it was clear he did not remember Joshua in the least. He planned to treat the other boy exactly as he and Tom had the ones at the orphanage, along with Vernon and Petunia; bad things would come back to bite them. He also realized very quickly that Dudley was incredibly spoiled. After giving things due consideration he used his magic to become aversive to them. The more they left him alone the better.

He spent his time exploring the neighborhood in disguise, haunting the library, and generally doing whatever he pleased. It was near the end of July that a strange letter arrived, labeled in green ink and addressed to Harry Potter; he supposed that must be his birth name. After all, it had no post mark or stamp, and he was the only one there with a suspect identity.

He thought, after reading it through, that it was a bit silly. After all, it was not as though he had access to an owl. That occasioned a chat with Petunia after the menfolk had departed, one to a job and one to be with his friends. Petunia was not at all open to the idea of answering questions, but her fear of what Joshua might do to her loosened her tongue nicely and caused her to retrieve a letter which had been left with him when he had originally been dropped off. She was also induced to hand over a sum of money; he wasn’t up to stealing from strangers.

Back in his room he pondered the wisdom of heading to London alone. He knew from his explorations that many children around his age took buses and trains alone, so his traveling that way should not look suspicious, but perhaps it would be better to wait a while to see if someone from this Hogwarts place would come to visit him after a lack of response.

In point of fact, several days later, someone did arrive, a giant of a man whose knocks at the door sounded like the rumble of thunder. He opened the door cautiously and was greeted with a very hearty, “Harry!”

Joshua paused, wondering just how it was possible for anyone to be that tall, then said, “Who are you?”

“Why, I’m Rubeus Hagrid, groundskeeper at Hogwarts. I’m here ter take yeh ter get yer supplies.”

Joshua nodded slightly. “I suppose I should ask my aunt for money.”

“Nah, Harry, don’t yeh worry ’bout that. Yer parents didn’t leave yeh with nothin’. We’ll take care of it when we get there.”

His eyes narrowed in thought even as he nodded. “In that case, I guess I’m ready. Oh, I need my letter. Why don’t you come in for a moment while I fetch it.” He stepped back to allow the man inside, then closed the door. As he turned to head for the stairs Petunia stepped through the kitchen door and stopped dead. Joshua arched a brow at her, causing her to turn right back around and leave.

A quick jaunt upstairs and he had the letter, and was back with Mr Hagrid (“Just Hagrid is fine.”) in no time, on his way by train to London. Unfortunately it was packed, so he did not bother to voice any of the myriad questions he had. He was slightly shocked when Hagrid pointed out the Leaky Cauldron and began to wonder about how magic could be shaped to handle that sort of concealment. Inside his gaze was quickly drawn to the back, where a number of people seemed to be both arriving from and exiting through, and headed that way while Hagrid was distracted by a man behind the bar.

He was standing in a tiny courtyard eyeing people who kept causing an arch to form in the brick wall when Hagrid caught up to him, looking slightly panicked. “Ah, there yeh are! Let’s be goin’, then. We’ll head ter Gringotts first,” the man said as he tapped the tip of his umbrella to one of the bricks. “I’ve got yer vault key handy so yeh can get some gold for yer things.”

He simply nodded again, and followed when Hagrid stepped through the arch and cut a swath through the crowds, listening intently to not only what the man was saying, but also to what was being said around him.

By the time he arrived back at Privet Drive he was loaded down with a trunk he could only manage because he used magic on it. Rather than purchasing only what was on his list he had spent a lot of time at Flourish & Blotts browsing the untidy stacks, picking out anything that looked interesting, and most especially books on history. Hagrid had, after all, informed him of his status in the wizarding world, which made him both curious and wary.

He was right to be. Aside from having finally learned what his birth date was, he was now in possession of the knowledge that wizarding folk (many of them, anyway) considered him to be some kind of hero, an icon for the Light. Joshua scoffed at that given that it went entirely contrary to his personality. Why on earth should he care about these people when he had been left to live with these—what had Hagrid called them?—muggles who thought nothing of hurting and starving him. He knew he was incredibly lucky that his magic had responded and taken him to a safe place for so many years, though he wished he understood why it had snatched him back. He missed Tom dearly.

Joshua stared out the window of his tiny bedroom and sighed heavily. He was going to have to fake it if he was going to survive. Maybe . . . Tom was still out there?

* * *

On the thirty-first of August he caught a train into London, then a cab to the general vicinity of the Leaky Cauldron, paying the driver with money he had gotten from Petunia. Once inside he rented a room for the night, being careful not to let the scar on his forehead show, and slept in relative peace. The next morning, after breakfast, he asked the owner about the best way to get to Kings Cross, and had the floo system explained to him, then promptly used it.

The train was a wondrous sight to see, but he left off gazing at it to board and find an empty compartment near the front, thinking it might be so that it would fill up from the back forward, thus giving him more time to himself. Most people chose a different compartment after looking in and seeing his stare, though he did hear one boy say, “What the hell is a firstie doing all the way up front?”

Some time after the train had begun moving a blond about his age swaggered in, leaving two hulking brutes outside the door. The blond eyed him up and down, then lifted his chin and said, “I am Draco Malfoy.”

Joshua eyed the boy in turn, immediately assuming that he was probably from a rich family, and would most likely end up in Slytherin. “Harry Potter.”

Draco smirked—rather badly, at that—and had a seat without bothering to ask. He gestured negligently toward the still open door. “They’re Crabbe and Goyle. So, what house do you think you’ll be in?”

He thought it was interesting that Draco assumed he already knew about things like that. Following on the heels of that was the question of whether people in general assumed he had grown up around wizards. “If the books I read are anything to go by, I suppose people would expect me to be in Gryffindor.”

Draco grimaced, though the expression fled his face quickly. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to go there. A bunch of reckless people always rushing into things without bothering to think, I’ve heard. _I’m_ certain I shall be in Slytherin.”

“With the cunning and ambitious?”

Draco nodded. “I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn’t be horrible,” he admitted rather reluctantly, “but I’d rather be in Slytherin. What about you? You didn’t say, only what you thought others would.”

Joshua shrugged. “I think Slytherin or maybe Ravenclaw would be best suited, but I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Why ever not?” Draco questioned indignantly.

“I think it might upset too many people for me to be in Slytherin, and they might pay even more attention to me. If I went into Gryffindor, even though I think I would hate it, they’d see only what they expected to see.”

The blond looked thoughtful at that. “You certainly sound like a Slytherin.” Draco stood up. “Be prepared for some taunting if you go Gryffindor, though. All in good fun, since I know better.” After a nod he slipped out the door and disappeared, his two hulking brutes shadowing him.

Joshua got up long enough to close the door, then sat back to contemplate. Draco might be a seeming snob, probably spoiled rotten like his cousin, but there was a chance he would be neutral, and a chance that at least one person would have some idea that he was not all he appeared to be. Time would tell.

He was interrupted again by a lady with a sweets trolley, but he only spent a small amount of money, not having any real idea how much was in his vault, thus not knowing how long it would serve his needs. It was just as well, as he had not thought to buy a sandwich for lunch before leaving the Leaky Cauldron. He used his magic to make his compartment unattractive to anyone else and got out a book, prepared to read for the remainder of the ride.

On arrival he stowed his book, tugged on a set of robes, and prepared to file off the train. He was displeased that students were told to leave their trunks on the train, but also could not see himself dragging it everywhere he went. Outside Hagrid was calling for the first years so he complied, keeping his head slightly down, and climbed into one of the boats awaiting them.

A short time later, after a spectacular view of the lit up castle, they arrived and were guided into a large room and told to wait. An elderly lady was there, who stayed long enough to give them some instructions, then left.

The children around him immediately erupted into excited chatter. He listened, but did not join in. Draco had his own little circle of friends and seemed to be explaining something. One boy looked almost terrified to be there, while another was looking around rather mournfully, as though something was missing. Eventually the lady—Professor McGonagall—returned, not long after a group of ghosts had floated through a wall and scared half the children, and led them across what looked to be an entrance hall and into a dining area. Four long tables stretched the length with one on a dais at the back, perpendicular to the others, and resting on a stool was a battered old hat. Which sang.

Joshua was more interested in the sky overhead and listening to the whispers of the children around him, but he paid more attention when the first name was called and the hat sorted the first child into a house. When his turn came he was mildly disgusted to see nearly everyone look excited at getting their first real view of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

He was mentally prepared for the encounter, even not having any clue exactly how the hat worked, and sat down, feeling it slip over his head. He was then surprised when the hat spoke into his mind, though not that it was favoring Slytherin so quickly. “Not Slytherin,” he said forcefully.

‘ _Are you sure? You seem terribly suited for it.’_

‘ _Not Slytherin,’_ he repeated, this time in his thoughts. _‘I’ve heard such horrible things about it.’_

‘ _Surely you don’t believe that rubbish! Slytherin would help you on the way to greatness, child.’_

‘ _No, it won’t. It’ll turn three quarters of the wizarding world against me, so it matters very little how suited you think it is. Not Slytherin!’_

The hat paused, rather in the way that Draco had. _‘I see. Well, better be . . .’_ “Gryffindor!”

The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers and applause; he tried not to wince at the sound. Seated there he was appalled to find that people kept wanting to touch him, as though he was a good luck charm or talisman or something. It was all he could do not to snap at them for being so cavalier with his person.

He did notice there were an awful lot of redheads at the table. The one next to him looked like he had a stick up his ass, two more down the table were twins and had devilish smiles on their faces, and another one had just seated himself—the mournful-looking boy.

As the final first year was being sorted the redhead across from him asked, “Do you really have it?”

Joshua arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know, the scar.” The boy looked entirely too excited about the idea.

He licked his lips, took a breath, and said, “Am I to understand that you wish to gawk at the enduring reminder of my parents’ deaths?”

“Ronald,” scolded the redhead next to Harry, “stop being so tactless!”

“What did I say?”

The girl seated next to Ronald looked ready to launch into a lecture, but an old man sitting at the center of the head table chose that moment to rise and speak, identifying himself as Headmaster Dumbledore, welcoming everyone to a new year and inviting them all to have dinner, at which point the tables suddenly burst with platters and bowls of food.

Joshua filled his plate and began to eat, letting his gaze slowly slide over the people at the head table, from Hagrid at one end—Dumbledore seemed to feel his eyes and looked up long enough to smile, his eyes twinkling in a manner Joshua found disturbing—to a man wearing a turban at the other. It was then that he felt a sharp slice of pain in his scar and barely managed not to wince.

Ollivander’s voice came back to him. “ _It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar._ ”

Why would his scar pain him on seeing one of the professors, and at that, the back of the man’s head?

The Gryffindor common room was an explosion of red and gold—tasteless in his opinion. It was just as tasteless as the self-proclaimed muggle-born confiding to him on the walk up that she had read all about him and his defeat of You Know Who. Apparently she was more than capable of hypocrisy. The redhead with a stick up his ass, Percy the prefect, brother to the other redheads, pompously explained where their dorms were, and Joshua immediately headed up the staircase, intent on a visit to the loo and some sleep after assuring himself that his trunk had been properly delivered. Ronald (“Call me Ron.”) dogged his steps like an overeager puppy.

The first week of school was both exciting and boring. He hid his disdain for wands, his disdain for Snape, and his disdain for Ronald’s whining about homework and his attempts to distract Joshua from completing his assignments. As always he said, “I intend to do well in school. Work comes before play.”

Amusingly, it always seemed to work out that Ronald goofed off while Joshua was working, and when Ronald was franticly trying to complete his assignments so close to their deadlines, it simply gave Joshua time to himself, to read one of the many books in the library or to explore the castle. He supposed it was unfair of him to slightly stretch his work out so as to time it perfectly, but it did afford him amusement and time away.

Seamus and Dean seemed to have become fast friends while Neville was like a ghost. The female first years always seemed to be huddled together and giggling, except for the tactless girl, who studied furiously every available moment, or read every book she could get her hands on.

The newspaper one morning told of a break-in at Gringotts, coincidentally the same vault Hagrid had fetched something from. People were talking about it, though; break-ins just did not happen at Gringotts. It did not seem to upset the headmaster, defeater of Dark Lord Grindelwald, but surely whatever it was that Hagrid had retrieved was now in the man’s possession. Hagrid had said it was Hogwarts business.

He tuned them all out and headed to class, to Defense. Quirrell was there in all his stuttering, turban-wrapped glory, causing him sharp slices of pain every time the man turned his back on the class. It made Joshua wonder if the man was somehow tied to Voldemort; why else would his scar hurt? But why only when the man faced away? He was beginning to dislike garlic, and he really, really liked garlic.

Time passed. Neville hid, Dean and Seamus did everything together, Lavender and Parvati giggled constantly, Ronald whined and insulted Hermione numerous times, Hermione lectured incessantly, and Joshua tried to avoid all of them as much as possible without looking like he was doing so.

When Christmas break rolled around he wondered why it was that wizards and witches celebrated a Christian holiday. Was it the influence of muggle-borns? Wizards had been around since long before Christ, had been burned as heretics, and yet they had Christmas trees littering the Great Hall? He was, in fact, surprised that there was a present for him.

It was anonymous, containing a silvery cloak and a note informing him that it had belonged to his father. The material was like silk between his fingers, but aside from the obvious quality and workmanship he could see nothing particularly special about it, so why the admonition to “use it well”? The mystery there was handily resolved once he put it on, and most of his body vanished from view.

After recovering from his shock he removed it and hastily tucked it away deep in his trunk, already worried about someone finding and/or stealing it. And if his father had lent it to someone, that someone must be an adult, and what adult was so irresponsible as to give a child something of that nature? He could go almost anywhere wearing it, spy on almost anyone, steal things without anyone seeing it happen, infiltrate the other houses, and quite possibly, enter the restricted section to read what required permission to read.

He smirked at that. However, common sense stepped in and cuffed him upside the head. What was to say whoever gave it to him did not have a way to see him regardless? Or track his movements? Perhaps some experimentation was in order.

The first thing he did was check his dorm room for any spare magic, concentrating fiercely on _willing_ any of it to show, for his eyes to temporarily gain an extra ‘sense’. Aside from seeing faint auras around various things—he thought perhaps it was akin to magic having been dusted like powder from a moth’s wings over frequently handled objects—there was nothing in particular that greatly stood out. Well, his wand.

The common room was much the same, so he stepped out into the corridor and tried again. The guardian portrait glowed even more brightly than the other portraits in the vicinity, and he wondered if that was by virtue of her additional functions. He returned inside and checked over his holiday work, then grabbed his cloak. He realized, as he was exiting the guardian portrait, that there was a single portrait in the common room, some past Gryffindor or whatever, and it made him wonder. Was it there to report to the head of house in case of trouble? Did all the portraits report things, and if so, to whom? He decided to be wary of all of them.

With that in mind he waited to wear the cloak until he was in a bare area, then continued wandering and looking at things, pausing only long enough to concentrate on making his feet hit the floor silently, having quickly realized that invisibility was useless if people could still hear you moving about.

Several days later he could be found lurking in the library. It struck him as odd that the doors were not secured after hours, but he could find nothing odd about them, so he shrugged it off for the time being. The restricted section was tucked away at the back of the library with only a rope to define the entrance, allowing anyone to be able to see within. Truly, he could not understand why it was not closer to Pince’s desk.

He could discern no particular alarms on the rope itself, thus he entered, stepping over it. The books, however. . . . He was very careful handling those. And they were, each of them, quite interesting. Surely Tom had also availed himself of these treasures, somehow. He would keep pace with his friend, despite the chasm of years between them.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 19-24 October 2009
> 
>  **Notes** : I seem to have given up on trying to come up with clever chapter titles. Just too much damn work.

He was walking toward class when he felt the impact against his back. A moment later he was falling, falling fast, the cold stone floor several storeys down rushing up to meet him. He had heard the saying that your life passes before your eyes when death approaches; he actually managed to snort. All he could see was that cold, hard, unforgiving stone floor. Joshua jerked to a stop a bare inch above the surface, then dropped the final distance, out of breath and slightly hysterical with relief.

After shakily getting to his feet he looked around, scanning both the floor he was on, as well as those above him. He saw nothing and no one. Moments later he was deep within the shadows of a nearby corridor, trying to get his breathing under control, and gradually becoming aware of a rather uncomfortable feeling in his trousers. Joshua huffed and quickly spelled himself clean and dry, then waited. As soon as a bunch of students walked by he tagged along behind them, hoping for safety in numbers.

The next incident involved a troll roaming the halls late one night. Joshua also often roamed the halls late at night, either exploring or heading to or from the library’s restricted section. He was chased along countless halls, stairs, and eventually ended up in the dead-end forbidden third floor corridor. It was all he could do to magic open the heavy door at the end, just in time for the troll to be close enough to rush him. It ended up inside, the door slammed behind it, and he raced back to the safety of Gryffindor.

He was beginning to get the idea that someone was trying to kill him. That someone must be either a part of the school, or able to enter it at will. That someone was most likely strongly connected to Voldemort. It also occurred to him that invisibility and silence were wonderful things, but smell was also a sense he should take into consideration.

When a snake slithered down the hall toward him he entertained suspicions that Voldemort himself was somehow involved, despite everyone ‘knowing’ that the man was gone. And that made him think of Quirrell, He Who Stutters, the man who sounded almost sibilant when his S’s went funny. Giving no one who might be spying the least idea that he could talk to snakes, Joshua turned abruptly down a hallway to the left and ran, ducking into one of the secret passages he had found, one which would take him up three floors in no time, and get him that much closer to Gryffindor.

Much later he was relaxing after final exams, reading yet another book. It, sadly, had to be tucked away in order that he might join his fellow Gryffindors for the leaving feast. The rumor mill was hard at work up and down the table, letting him know that Professor Quirrell had gone missing, quite likely on the same night that the headmaster had been called away from the school. He was, indeed, absent from the head table, and had been for days.

A surreptitious sweep of his eyes along there showed that the headmaster was gazing at him with something akin to disappointment in his eyes. Was that because Slytherin had won the house cup? Or because the old man had expected some great feat out of him, and he had failed to deliver?

The train ride back was filled with the chattering of so many children excited by the prospect of months of summer freedom. Ronald was there, still that devoted puppy clamoring for attention, babbling away thoughtlessly, promising to write, inviting him to his home for later in the summer. Like they were friends or something.

Vernon was there to pick him up, looking exceedingly put out by the inconvenience. The man said nothing, however, either then or during the ride back to Little Whinging. One look at Joshua’s cold expression was all it took for him to remember what the child could do.

As before Joshua spent much of his time reading at the library, some for pleasure, and some for the purpose of investigating what he would have been learning had he not been whisked away to the magical world for their idea of an education. Personally, he found the magical world’s idea of pleasure reading to be singularly dry and mostly aimed at small children. Did the wonder of magic in their daily lives remove the fantasy that came with fiction?

It also struck him rather forcefully that a magical education was quite static. There were no classes which encouraged creativity, free thinking, debate, art, music, or really, anything that challenged the mind. It was as though these people were a subset of humanity so entrenched in their way of life that new ideas were almost actively discouraged. It was no wonder that pranksters tended to be looked down upon, even as they made people laugh; they were attempting to innovate.

With that in mind he did more than simply investigate muggle education, and instead, actively began trying to teach himself what he was missing. Perhaps he could arrange, at the appropriate time, to take muggle tests after returning from Hogwarts, even if he had to pay for it.

Not long after his twelfth birthday a strange creature appeared in his bedroom. It had huge, glassy eyes, elongated, almost bat-like ears, and the body size of a small child. Clothing it was a tunic fashioned from what looked like a pillow case, and he wrinkled his nose at the threadbare state of it. “What are you?”

“Harry Potter!” squealed the creature. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir. Such an honor it is.”

He repeated, “What are you?”

“Dobby the house-elf, sir.”

“I see. Why are you here?”

The house-elf fidgeted before saying, “Dobby has come to tell you, sir . . . it is difficult, sir . . . Dobby wonders where to begin. . . .”

Joshua’s eye twitched in irritation. He would have to read up on house-elves to know why this one was acting so strangely.

“Dobby heard tell,” it said rather raspingly, “that Harry Potter has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he _does_ have to shut his ears in the oven door later. . . . _Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts._ ”

Joshua just stared. House-elves punished themselves?

“If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts he will be in mortal danger. There is a plot, a plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril!”

So someone, presumably a Death Eater, a sympathizer, or Voldemort himself, was plotting, and he might be affected by it. How shocking. Later on he would attribute his blasé state of mind on the surreal quality of the encounter. All he did then was say, “Thank you for the warning.”

Dobby started wringing the hem of his tunic (incidentally showing Joshua more than he had ever wanted to see about house-elf physiology) and wailing something about sir being so very kind to be so kind to a lowly house-elf.

“I guess you’ll be leaving, then,” he finally said, cutting through the house-elf’s awed babblings. “Someone might miss you.”

Dobby went silent, fear making his eyes bulge. A second later he disappeared with a crack.

“I really need to learn about them,” he murmured, “and about how he was able to find me.”

The next morning he was on a train into London, then in a cab to the vicinity of the Leaky Cauldron. Magic once again altered his appearance and he was able to browse through Flourish & Blotts without notice, and while he was there he picked up his books for the coming year. Joshua was seated in one of the many comfortable reading chairs trying to decide exactly what additional books to purchase when the sound of an altercation brought his head up.

A man who looked astonishingly like Draco was sneering at a family of redheads; Ronald was with them and spitting mad. He didn’t listen to the words, but rather watched faces. The blond was supercilious, Draco had his nose up in the air, and the redheads were torn between anger and uncertainty. As the older blond turned to go he knocked into a girl Joshua assumed was Ronald’s sister, and then they were gone, leaving behind a very upset family.

Later on Joshua was sitting by the window, staring outside without seeing, running through his mind the information gained on house-elves. Very powerful creatures, bound to serve a family (with only few exceptions), and capable of a great many feats of magic that many wizards and witches would have trouble with. It seemed that most people thought so little of the creatures that wards against them were almost never emplaced, which would explain how it had found him.

Would Dobby have assumed that he had agreed not to return to Hogwarts? Would he be watched? Given that he lived in the muggle world. . . . Joshua shook his head and turned from the window, his mind already looking forward to reading more about the world he should have grown up in.

* * *

He spent the night at the Leaky Cauldron, then used the floo to get to Platform 9¾. He picked the same compartment he had before, used magic to keep it mostly aversive, and pulled out a book. It wasn’t until after the trolley lady had gone by that Draco showed up, striding in like he owned the place to take a seat opposite. His two hulking brutes stood guard at the door.

“So, how’s life in Gryffindor?”

Joshua smirked faintly. “About as I expected. Yes, I hate it, and I don’t fit in at all, but they seem to overlook that and have convinced themselves I do.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t killed any of them yet,” Draco replied with a matching smirk.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Much as they grate, that would sort of point out that I’m not one of them.”

“If you’re cunning enough, they won’t know it’s you behind some of their unfortunate accidents,” Draco pointed out as he stood. “I’ll be off, then,” he said, then strode out briskly.

Joshua shook his head slightly and magic’d the door closed, and returned to his book.

* * *

He had barely taken a seat when Ronald dropped down beside him and started whining. “You didn’t return any of my letters!”

“I am unable to receive post where I live,” he said, not bothering to look over. In point of fact he had wondered why the only letters he had ever received had come from the school. Surely if he was the Boy Who Lived he would have adoring fans pestering him with well wishes and such. As Ronald started babbling about his summer he cast a surreptitious look at the head table. Maybe Dumbledore? He also noticed that Quirrell was missing and a blond with a blinding, self-satisfied grin was present. Wonderful.

The headmaster’s speech revealed the man’s name—Lockhart—but said nothing about the third floor corridor from the year before. It was also impossible to miss how half or more of the female population (and some of the males) sighed and aimed calf eyes toward Lockhart. At least now he knew what buffoon had written the Defense books, not that they were. More like a puffed up and fictionalized dramatic recounting of events which may or may not have happened.

Joshua briefly entertained the idea of slipping the man something to touch up that white smile. He shot a sideways glance down the table; the Weasley twins would probably be blamed, if he did. A glance in the other direction brought to his attention the youngest Weasley; the second their eyes met she blushed hotly and looked away.

Sadly, it happened on a regular basis. The girl could barely look at him without blushing and making herself scarce. The bright side was that she never attempted to speak to him, as he had the feeling she would stutter worse than Quirrell ever had. Her behavior was both irritating and amusing, and he realized that she spent quite a lot of time scribbling away in a book of some sort, a diary perhaps. That made him shudder, unwilling thoughts about just what she might be committing to paper coming to mind, and strengthened his resolve to ignore her in the future.

He was walking quietly down an empty corridor Halloween evening on his way to dinner when something grabbed his attention forcefully. Cold words, faint, came to his ears, their content making him shiver. “ _. . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . . ._ ” He followed them without thought. “ _. . . soo hungry . . . for so long . . . kill . . . time to kill . . . I smell blood . . . . I SMELL BLOOD!_ ”

Ahead of him was a large puddle of water reflecting Filch’s cat hanging from a bracket, the feline stiff as though long dead, and blood red words painted the nearby wall: _The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir beware._

Being a reasonably smart boy, Joshua committed the scene to memory, then slipped back the way he had come, ducking into one of the secret passages he had found to regroup. Moments later he was off again, taking a different route to the Great Hall, and as he slipped into a seat and loaded up a plate he noticed that the youngest Weasley seemed both out of breath and confused.

In early November Colin Creevey, a particularly persistent pest of a muggle-born photo maniac, was found petrified in one of the corridors and taken to the infirmary. And while Joshua felt neither happiness nor dismay over the boy’s fate, he was rather gleeful that the camera Creevey always carried had apparently been destroyed. Mid-December brought about another two victims, this time Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick. Hagrid was also complaining about how his roosters kept being killed.

The holiday itself seemed to pass peacefully. Most of the students had left to return to their homes, so there were very few of them left in the castle to disturb Joshua in any way, though he was stuck with Ronald the overeager puppy, Ginny the blushing stutterer, and Hermione the incessant nag. He was so pleased when second term began, it being so much easier to avoid the attention of others simply by being one in a crowd, even if that did occasionally mean ducking into the first door available when certain persons were seen to be headed in his direction. In one such instance he ended up in an out-of-use bathroom and collected the curiosity of a somewhat familiar book from the floor, which was tucked away for later investigation.

He found the time while Ronald was in a panic over homework, slipping away quietly to a secret passage which had dust thick like felt, the only disturbances in it the footprints he himself had placed. The book itself was unassuming leather, flaking gilt letters spelling out Vauxhall Road, and the initials T.M.R.

That gave him brief pause, but perhaps coincidence was simply wishful thinking on his part. He opened it and was surprised to see blank pages within. A twist of his vision, however, showed that the book was far from innocent, and was heavily magical. On a whim he pulled a quill from his pack, along with ink, and wrote the date on the first page. Seconds later the ink sank into the parchment.

“That’s not normal,” he muttered, then carefully wrote, ‘ _What sort of book are you?_ ’ The writing sank in again, but nothing else happened, causing some frustration on his part. ‘ _My name is Joshua._ ’

That time the writing remained in place, even after several minutes, and a strange sense of familiarity rose within him. ‘ _Joshua Blake Durand._ ’

The letters sank with exceptional speed, to be replaced with ‘ _Joshua? How can that be? You disappeared._ ’

He blinked repeatedly, having trouble understanding what he was seeing. ‘ _Yes, I disappeared, but only one person witnessed it._ ’

‘ _Yes, it was I. Joshua, this is Tom. What happened to you?_ ’

He blinked again, a familiar sting coming to his eyes, and he raised his left hand to rub them. How on earth was he going to explain?

‘ _Begin at the beginning._ ’

Joshua laughed slightly. The demanding tone came across so clearly, even in simple letters.

‘ _Do you remember when I came to live at the orphanage?_ ’

‘ _Yes._ ’

‘ _Well. . . .’_ A bit later he had gotten to the point in his explanation where he was about to set off for his first trip to Diagon Alley. ‘ _Isn’t there some easier way to do this? My hand is getting tired._ ’

There was a pause before the words formed. ‘ _Are you in a safe place?_ ’

‘ _Safe enough. I don’t think anyone has found the passage I’m in for years, maybe centuries._ ’

‘ _Good._ ’

A second later the quill fell from his fingers as the book began to glow with an unearthly light, and the next thing he knew he was sitting in a stone room. Tapestries softened the walls, the chair supporting him was slightly yielding, and across from him, in a similar chair, was a young man. “Tom?” he said hesitantly.

“You don’t look so much different than from when you left,” was the slow reply.

“But you look a lot older. Why?”

Tom narrowed his eyes for a moment, making them seem even darker than usual. “I was sixteen when I . . . imbued the book with my magic.” He tilted his head slightly, then said, “Joshua, what do you know of a person named Harry Potter?”

His eyes widened. After a moment he shrugged carelessly. “That’s who these people seem to think I am. I didn’t know about it until after Hagrid brought me to Diagon Alley. It didn’t take long for me to realize these people were going to expect someone completely different from who I am.” He frowned and continued, “I bought a lot of extra books. I convinced the hat to put me in Gryffindor, even though I think I should be in Slytherin. Like you?”

Tom’s cold expression softened slightly. “Yes.”

“I thought about what you might have done,” he confided. “I thought, if I went into Gryffindor, people would fool themselves into seeing what they expected. I really don’t like it in there, but they’re easy enough to ditch when I get too annoyed. I figured since we could do the same things you would have ended up here, too, so I’ve been sneaking into the restricted section. I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me, not learning as much as I could.” He went silent, really wanting to admit just how much he missed Tom, but not sure how he would take something like that said out loud.

His eyes must have said it for him, as Tom’s expression softened even further. “I missed you.”

Joshua smiled brightly, the first time he had done so in almost two years.

“Joshua, there’s something I need to explain to you. The book has been in the possession of a girl named Ginny Weasley for a number of months. She’s been writing to me, telling me every little thing about her life, her hopes, her dreams, and . . . her infatuation with the Boy Who Lived.”

He grimaced.

Tom chuckled lowly. “What you won’t like to hear is that I am Lord Voldemort.”

Joshua felt a shock like ice water engulf him, his eyes widening in disbelief. “But—”

“It’s all right,” Tom said soothingly. “I admit that I do not know what happened. The girl’s accounts were scattered, so it is obvious she knows very little. Something must have happened. Joshua, the book is something very special, it’s a part of me. That’s how I can speak to you this way. This is the me at that age, and I have never forgotten you. The rest of me . . . well . . . I don’t really know. Perhaps I went crazy. I don’t have the capability of sensing that, or myself. Maybe together we can figure it out.”

“Tom. . . .” He huffed, at a loss. “Tom, I . . . I think you’re trying to kill me. Last year, there were three attempts on my life. This year people keep getting petrified.”

Tom frowned slightly, his eyes narrowing again. “Then I obviously do not remember you for some reason.” He stood quickly and moved forward, kneeling before Joshua’s chair and placing his hands on Joshua’s. “I’m going to tell you something very important, something very secret. No one must ever learn of this, do you understand?”

Joshua nodded.

“The book is a Horcrux. It is a soul anchor, in the event my physical body should ever be killed. I can be reborn from it.” Tom’s hands tightened over his. “Listen to me. For me to be reborn there must be a death.”

Joshua sucked in a breath, then relaxed, realizing that the death of some irritant really did not upset him. “How does it work?”

“The girl. The more she writes, the more she pours into the book, the more of her life force and soul goes toward restoring mine. The more she allows herself to be overtaken, and does my bidding as she’s been doing, the easier it becomes.”

“Oh,” he said in realization. “It’s been you. What exactly have you been doing?” He was mildly shocked a short time later to realize that Tom had been using the Weasley girl to command a basilisk. It was only pure chance that nobody had been killed. He was further shocked when Tom admitted to more.

“There’s something else you should know. You came back to me.”

His eyes crossed briefly at the idea. “I did? Must not have happened yet. Er. . . .”

Tom chuckled again. “You came back to me, though I don’t know how. Nothing I tried could reveal the answer to that. It seems as though time itself refused to let you part with that information, perhaps to preserve the time line? However, I don’t know anything beyond the point when I enchanted the book. You chose a new look, though. Neither of us really trusted Dumbledore.”

Joshua scowled. “Dumbledore is the one who left me with those people,” he said acidly. “And last year, he looked at me with disappointment at the leaving feast. I don’t know by what right he can have any expectations of me. I get the feeling you—Voldemort—had a lot to do with our defense teacher, Quirrell. Every time the man’s back faced me I felt pain, here.” He tapped the scar on his forehead.

Tom reached out to trace the scar with his fingers, then gasped, utter surprise suffusing his face.

“Tom, what is it?” he asked urgently.

Tom looked almost embarrassed for a moment. “Joshua, I think the night Voldemort tried to kill you he left a little something behind. I think your scar is another Horcrux of mine, unintentionally so. So long as you live I can never truly die. Maybe . . . maybe the reason for last year is that you called to me, whatever I am now. Even if I did not understand why. Or, maybe, I just recalled when Harry Potter was due to attend Hogwarts.”

A pregnant pause ensued before Joshua spoke quietly. “What do we do now?”

Tom’s gaze sharpened with resolution. “I start teaching you some things, like how to protect your mind. I am fairly certain that Dumbledore is a Legilimens and does not scruple to contain himself from poking around. After that, we’ll see about finishing up with the girl.” He paused, then shook his head. “Concurrently, actually. At times I will need to be with her to continue the draining, but I will always have her, without her knowledge, turn the book over to you so we can have our lessons. When the time is right we shall see to her end, and my rebirth.”

By the time May rolled around Joshua had a fairly good handle on Occlumency, but not in the style those proficient in it would necessarily recognize. Everything sacrosanct was hidden away, certainly, but everything harmless was allowed to inhabit his mind as usual, as though he had no training at all. Neither of them could be certain of just how effective his defenses were without a real test, and unfortunately, being a Horcrux himself meant that Tom could pierce Joshua’s mind with very little effort. That, and they were working within a mindscape to begin with, which made it doubly difficult to see the real results of their efforts.

Hermione Granger and Penelope Clearwater were found petrified just prior to the final quidditch game of the season and rushed off to the infirmary to join the other afflicted. He cared not so much about that news as finding out that Dumbledore had been removed as headmaster for failing to see to the safety of the school. And on a side note, Hagrid had been taken away to Azkaban on suspicion of being the culprit behind everything.

On the one hand he found that amusing, but also rather sad. Tom had explained about the previous time he had used the basilisk and how he had pinned the death of Myrtle on Hagrid, but Joshua was disgusted to realize that something like a trial was not forthcoming. The people in charge seemed more concerned with their own version of the witch hunts, and less with actual justice. But, then, that played into their hands, and Hagrid, sadly, was blindly devoted to the old man, despite the fact that he had never managed to get the poor half-giant a fair trial the first time around. Joshua just shook his head, bemused.

Was it just that because Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald so many people seemed to think the man was Merlin reincarnated? That he could do no wrong, make no mistakes, and be forgiven just about anything? It had crossed his mind, very briefly, when Hagrid had told him that Dumbledore himself had sent the half-giant, to be grateful to the old man. But then he had learned exactly who had placed him with the Dursleys, and any thoughts of gratitude had vanished into suspicion. Must be Tom’s influence, and that of the more common sense muggles.

It was just prior to exams week when Ronald came barreling down the hallway, sliding to a stop next to him; he already wished he had not left the more isolated parts of the castle. Ronald was so out of breath that Joshua couldn’t understand a word the other boy was saying for some time.

“Gotta help,” Ronald insisted. “Overheard the professors. Ginny’s been taken, to the Chamber.”

His brows raised. “Right. What does this have to do with me?”

“You’re the Boy Who Lived! Of course you can do something!”

Tom had been very insistent he stay out of it, so Joshua thought for a moment, casually glancing around to see if there was any type of spy in the vicinity, and frowned. Much as he would like to obliviate Ronald, he did not yet have enough power and control to do so. “Look, I don’t have the first clue what to do. You should leave this to the adults.”

“Lockhart,” Ronald gasped. “Said he knew where the Chamber was. We should go talk to him!”

Joshua suppressed a snort. Lockhart? That fraud? The man’s office was five storeys down from where they presently were. Perhaps he could arrange for an accident along the way? Before he could finish even putting together a hastily-conceived plan Ronald grabbed the sleeve of his robes and dragged him off.

As they were moving down the second to last set of staircases which would lead them to Lockhart’s office Joshua realized there was someone up ahead, and it was Tom. The problem was, Tom was semi-translucent. Joshua jerked to a stop, not really thinking about the consequences, and pulled Ronald off balance entirely, as the redhead still had his sleeve in a death grip. Ronald fell backward and bashed his head against the stone and Joshua ended up on his ass, one hand gripping the rail.

Tom approached, looking seriously pissed off. “Something did not go quite right. And nobody seems to be able to see or hear me but you.”

Joshua just stared, confused, then glanced down to see that Ronald was out cold.

“Take him to the infirmary. I will follow, and we can talk afterward.”

Madam Pomfrey was not happy in the least to see them, but directed Joshua to levitate Ronald onto a bed. Once he had explained what happened he was shooed away, and he was more than happy to go. On Tom’s advice he proceeded to the Great Hall where he had dinner, seemingly unconcerned about anything, then headed back to Gryffindor where he settled in to study for exams. It wasn’t until later, after his roommates had fallen asleep, that he handed his wand over to the semi-corporeal Tom so a set of privacy spells could be emplaced around his bed.

Tom still looked pissed off. “I’ve had some time to think about this and the only thing I can come up with is that it did not work correctly because the greater part of me is out there somewhere, somehow. However, in this form, I have a serious advantage in being able to find out what’s going on.”

Joshua, for his part, was deeply disappointed. “You’re going to try to track down Voldemort?”

Tom nodded. “If I can. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be with you, as well, as much as possible. I can continue to teach you, even like this. I am slightly concerned, however. I’ve already heard that there’ve been plans to shut down Hogwarts, just like when Myrtle was killed.”

Joshua frowned, as that would mean having to spend all year with the Dursleys, but on the other hand, it would mean a lot more steady practice at magic without a wand, and no nosy Gryffindors (or really, anyone from any other house) trying to take up his time. “What about her body?”

“I used her wand to spin webbing around her body and drained it of blood. The basilisk moved her to the forest for me and wedged her in a tree, and then I spun more webbing. Hagrid had a pet acromantula, you see, and it ended up in the forest. Should she be found. . . .”

“Clever,” he said admiringly, “very clever.”

Tom smirked at him. “I would like to think so. And even should anyone be brave enough to question the spiders, I sincerely doubt they would believe they were uninvolved.”

“Question them?”

Tom favored him with a patient look. “Acromantula are capable of speaking the human tongue. Still, they are seen as very dark beasts.”

Joshua shrugged. “I’ll just have to study Creatures on the side.”

The year ended on a sour note. Dumbledore had been reinstated, while Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a school governor. According to Tom, Malfoy had threatened the other governors into suspending the man, but Dumbledore had somehow divined this and acted to secure his position again. And, while Ginny’s body was found (by Hagrid of all people, having been released from Azkaban when it became obvious he could hardly have opened the Chamber from the prison), Ronald could not remember several hours from that evening when he had tried to enlist Joshua’s help, all thanks to the fortuitous knock on the head. Lockhart had fled the school sometime during the whole episode, so with luck they would not have to deal with his incompetence again. It was also true that with Malfoy’s influence greatly lessened, the school would remain open, though Tom stated that Lucius held a great deal of pull with Minister Fudge.

On the train ride back to London he went very early and secured a compartment at the very front, not wishing to be around Ronald or any of the Weasleys in their grief. Tom sat with him, keeping him company, but went silent when Draco Malfoy appeared and took a seat.

“Fun year. Too bad none of the mudbloods died.”

Joshua shook his head faintly. “Do try to remember that my mother was muggle-born, would you?”

“Oh, right.” Draco seemed rather discomfited, probably because he had forgotten that little detail. “How are you holding up?”

He waved his hand carelessly. “The same. I still hate it there, but what can you do? What did you pick for electives?”

Draco raised his chin. “Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Creatures. What about you?”

Joshua arched a brow. “Why Creatures? You don’t seem the type.”

“What, I’m not allowed to like them? Do you know, Malfoy Manor boasts a whole flock of albino peacocks.”

“Huh.” Rich people had strange tastes. “I opted for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes.”

Draco nodded. “Perhaps I’ll see you there, then,” he said, then got up and left, once again trailed by his brutes.

Joshua shook his head and closed the door, then looked at Tom. “Weird.”


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 24 October - 3 November 2009

Another summer rolled by, this time leavened by the presence of Tom, who taught him as much as possible given that Joshua could not use a wand. A trip had been made very early on to Diagon Alley so that he could pick up the books Tom recommended for his electives, and that occasioned a trip to Gringotts to visit his vault. He was on the ride back up when a thought struck him, so he turned his head and said, “Who would I speak to find out more about exactly how much money I have?”

The goblin grunted. “I shall inquire once we are back in the main bank.”

A bit later Joshua was somewhat upset to realize that all he really had was the vault he knew of, and while that contained a fair amount of galleons in it, it was not something he could depend on for much beyond several years past the end of his schooling, if he was frugal. Even Tom was puzzled, having known of the Potter family as a fairly wealthy one. Granted, not all pure-blood families were so (take the Weasleys, for example), but he could not immediately account for where the money had gone.

Tom’s investigations within the bank itself were difficult. While he could not be seen, the wand he was using—Ginny’s—could be, so he had to be careful. That, and the wards of the bank were able to prevent some of his movement and actions, as he seemed to be classified more like a poltergeist than a ghost, even if he wasn’t.

“What about people who were close to my parents?” Joshua asked. “Might they know?”

“Perhaps, but we don’t know who they might be,” Tom pointed out.

He laughed a bit stiltedly. “Funny how people never really like talking about them.”

Tom shrugged one shoulder. “Go ahead and start reading those books. I know where to find more money should it be necessary. I’m going to check some things out, so I’ll see you later.”

When his school letter arrived Joshua was quick to take the permission slip for Hogsmeade visits to his aunt. She signed it quickly and pushed it back, so he nodded and slipped up back to his room. He supposed he could have intimidated Vernon into doing it, but it was Petunia who was blood kin and thus made more sense.

He again received no other letters that summer, making him wonder if Dumbledore had done something odd, keeping him hidden and isolated in the muggle world. Knowing what he did of the Dursleys he realized that being inundated with fan mail for the freak in their midst might have caused them—Vernon in particular—to do something irreversible. Unfortunately, he was not knowledgeable enough about warding to make sense of what he could see, and Tom wasn’t learned enough yet, either. That particular issue would have to wait.

By the time he had arrived for his yearly stay at the Leaky Cauldron he was quite well versed in his chosen electives. He had been right; Tom was very pleased with just how much he had attempted to learn on his own, simply because he thought Tom would have done the same. He noticed in passing that evening that not only were there wanted posters scattered about regarding an escaped convict by the name of Sirius Black, but that the _Daily Prophet_ was running a story about the man.

Allegedly, Black was responsible for the betrayal of his parents, making it possible for Voldemort to find and kill them. Tom was already planning to find the man and interrogate him, such as was possible in his condition. Legilimency counted for something, after all, even if the target could not see his attacker.

The train ride was par (aside from the creeping presence of dementors), Draco’s visit was par, but the opening feast was muted at the Gryffindor table, mostly due to how subdued the Weasley family was. A part of Joshua mourned the death of an innocent girl, but another part of him sneered at just how foolish she had been.

The year itself was passing by mostly in a blur aside from several scares in the middle of the night. Someone—presumably Sirius Black—had been able to get into Gryffindor. Tom finally caught him one night in a cave near Hogsmeade, and used Ginny’s wand to knock him out and bind him, then place a sleeping spell so the man would not rise to consciousness before he was ready to let him.

“So let me get this straight,” Joshua said slowly. “Sirius Black was innocent and chucked into Azkaban without a trial due to Barty Crouch Sr, and survived there because his innocence was not a happy thought, and because he’s an animagus. Peter Pettigrew, thought to be dead, is a rat animagus, the real betrayer and follower of Voldemort, and is presently sleeping in my dormitory as Ronald’s pet rat. And Remus Lupin, my current Defense professor, is also a part of this group, and he’s not bothered to say one word to me despite being one of my father’s best friends growing up. And oh, he’s a werewolf.”

Tom nodded. “And Dumbledore did nothing to see that his little Order of the Phoenix member received a fair trial, else you might have been living with Black all this time, and we would never have met the way we did.”

Joshua rubbed his face with both hands. “You know, I’m not feeling good about any of them.”

“How do you mean?”

“Sirius Black was first on the scene, yet he left me to go chase after Peter? He abrogated his responsibility toward me to go be a reckless Gryffindor. Remus presumably disappeared to go mope over the ruin of his life, and even now says nothing to me, as though he would prefer to forget I even existed as the son of his friend. Sure, I get the idea that Black is after Pettigrew to clear his name, but what then, if he succeeds? Am I supposed to jump up and down with joy and want to live with him or something? He abandoned me then, and apparently he could have escaped years ago had he wished, but saw no reason to until he was taunted by Fudge and noticed Pettigrew’s rat form in a picture? Is he even sane?”

“Mostly,” Tom replied. “It’s rather hard to tell when a lot of his memories have been splintered due to the dementors. Much of what remains is unpleasantness and even malice. If he was not so focused on Pettigrew I have to wonder if Snape would still be alive. They had quite a rivalry going on, which also explains why Snape hates you so much, as your father was quite fond of tormenting him.”

“Great. I knew he didn’t like my dad, but I never knew why.”

Tom shrugged. “This impacts you heavily, Joshua. What do you think? What do you wish to do?”

He felt helpless and completely indecisive. “Is there any way you can do the same to Lupin?”

“I don’t see why not. I can simply catch him while he sleeps. I take it you want to know more about his decisions?”

“Yes. I feel like neither one of them gave a damn about me, so I’m not sure I should give a damn about them.”

Tom arched a considering brow. “You might feel differently when you’re older.”

Joshua gave an irritable shrug of one shoulder. “But I’m not older, am I. Besides, from what you’ve told me, I sincerely doubt that Black and Lupin will be all over the idea of joining you just because you’re my best friend. My only friend. They’d probably send me off to a psychiatrist given half a chance. Hey, if they live their lives, fine, but that doesn’t mean I have to do it alongside them.”

Tom simply nodded and got that look in his eyes, the one that said he was planning.

Lupin, as it turned out, had fled his life due to grief. He mourned James, he mourned Lily, he mourned Peter, and he mourned his traitorous friend Sirius. As for Harry, Lupin believed he would be too dangerous due to his lycanthropy (never mind that it was only once a month he was at risk), so it was best to leave the child alone, not that he had any idea where Harry was living, not having bothered to ask. And presently, he was far more interested in the fact that Sirius Black was allegedly roaming around Hogwarts to care about revealing anything to the son of one of his closest friends.

Joshua also learned more about the man as a school boy, and just how very spineless he really was. Lupin was a follower, not a leader. Frankly, Joshua felt a sense of twisted amusement that in many ways Lupin was very much like Pettigrew, only far more intelligent. But then, what good was intelligence if it wasn’t applied? Lupin never stopped the malicious ‘pranks’ his friends devised and enacted, even as a prefect, even knowing he was abusing his position.

Not, Joshua decided, a man he was particularly interested in getting to know.

And through the memories of Black and Lupin, it was apparent that James and Sirius had streaks of malice slicing through their characters like veins of tar. Perhaps James had matured, but his life had been cut so short, and Sirius had never really been given the chance to grow up, not really.

Again, not a man Joshua was particularly interested in getting to know.

He had, in some respects, put the entire matter out of his mind for quite some time. Joshua was headed for Gryffindor after his last exam (Ancient Runes—“Oh, I think I might have messed up Ehwaz,” Hermione had fretted on the way out, as though he cared.) when someone bumped into him in a corridor. His jaw clenched as he stepped away, then went slack as the person was revealed to be none other than Trelawney, the Divination professor, who appeared to be in a trance. Then she spoke.

“ _The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Tonight, before midnight . . . the servant will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant’s aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was. Tonight . . . before midnight . . . the servant . . . will set out . . . to rejoin . . . his master. . . ._ ”

He was racing down the hallway like a shot from a gun before she ever had a chance to come back to normal consciousness. Several minutes later he was sliding into one of his favored sanctuaries with no idea what to do. Joshua had only just calmed his breathing when he became aware of voices becoming louder beyond the hidden entrance.

“I don’t know, Ron! I just heard what was said.”

“Trelawney? Giving a prophecy? You can’t be serious.”

“I know what I heard,” she said gratingly. “Maybe we should go to Professor Dumbledore?”

Rumbling was heard, then a huffing sound. “Honestly, Ronald!”

“I can’t help it if I’m hungry! It’s time for dinner! Dumbledore will already be down there, so if you want to talk to him so badly catch him before he leaves. I doubt you’ll want to march up to the head table in front of the whole school, though.”

“Oh, I don’t know. . . .” Her voice trailed away, footsteps in tandem following, becoming softer.

Joshua took a moment to ponder the cycle of abuse those two put each other through. She harped and nagged, he insulted her and slacked off, and it just kept going around in circles like a tarnished band of Gryffindor gold. Once he was sure they were gone he darted back out of hiding and headed for the Great Hall himself, taking every shortcut he knew, and arrived well before them. He chose a seat which guaranteed they would not be able to sit anywhere near him, and tucked into his dinner, wondering where Tom was.

He finally noticed him as dinner was nearing its conclusion and heard him say, “Those two Gryffindors are planning to enlist your help for something. I’m going to get you sent to the infirmary, and we’ll speak there.”

Joshua continued to eat his treacle tart after a faint nod, then heard Hermione’s voice saying, “—already slipped out!” Two seconds later he suddenly felt not only overheated but very queasy, and got up quickly, which proved to be a mistake when he nearly lost his dinner, then blacked out.

When he came back to consciousness he kept his eyes closed.

“I’m right here, Joshua. We’re alone at the moment.”

He sighed and opened his eyes to see Tom standing next to the bed, his eyes flicking back and forth between the entrance to the infirmary and Madam Pomfrey’s office. “Trelawney gave a prophecy,” he whispered. “Check my mind.”

Tom glanced over quickly, a wand flicking into view, and suddenly he was reliving those moments, plus those of the conversation heard after. Then Tom was back to scanning the doors. “I shall follow them. A tracker has already been placed on Pettigrew, so if he is the one. . . . Stay safe ’til I return.” And then he was gone.

When he did return it was along with a completely flustered Hermione, Ronald with a broken leg, a sneering Snape, and a serene and twinkling-eyed Dumbledore. He himself would not still be there but for Pomfrey’s insistence that he stay the night in case of ‘complications’. With as little as he was able to understand about what had happened, he was glad when the two Gryffindors were forced to sleep and the adults took their leave.

Tom, naturally, explained what he had witnessed, which essentially consisted of a grim-like dog (Sirius) attacking a rat-holding Ronald in the entrance hall and dragging him to the Whomping Willow, breaking the boy’s leg in the process, and pulling him into a secret passage. Hermione had followed, either because she feared for a fellow student, or was too nosy to stay away and do the sensible thing: fetch a teacher.

Lupin had obviously seen something and had followed, as well, and somehow Snape got involved, though he had been knocked out early into the confrontation. The rat was revealed as Pettigrew, Lupin as a werewolf, Black as innocent, and yet, even with two adults and one reasonably smart and talented student witch, Pettigrew managed to escape just as a criminally forgetful Lupin began to transform.

Still, nobody was dead, even if Black was, apparently, locked up somewhere in the castle awaiting the aurors.

That night he thought about the recitation. He thought about how an adult, a professor, a man who had lived with his curse most of his life, had raced off into danger without taking wolfsbane potion on the night of the full moon, nearly leading to the deaths of several people. He thought about how Black seriously harmed a student in his efforts to capture Pettigrew.

Desperate people? Perhaps. Still not people he was particularly interested in getting to know.

The gossip that weekend was all about how Black had been captured, yet had escaped. Joshua wondered if anyone was ever going to mention the part about how Black was his godfather, though he doubted it. He also wondered just how many people now knew the man was actually innocent. He thought it was. . . .

Albus ‘Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot’ Dumbledore did nothing to force a trial for an allegedly innocent man. It was one more reason never to trust him, with anything.

Tom told him, after Joshua had had time to properly process the whole tale, that investigation of how Lupin had known to follow had revealed a magical map on the man’s desk, as well as a potion-filled goblet. While the goblet remained untouched, the map ‘mysteriously’ ended up somewhere else entirely. And no, Tom had no idea how the thing worked, not being exactly alive.

He breezed through his exams, ducked the other Gryffindors for the week following as he read up about the patronus charm and pondered the possibility of ever having a memory happy enough to power one, and returned to London on the train, pleased to be away from it all again. He had muggle classes to study up for.

Joshua was utterly shocked one night to dream and remember it in vivid detail, and he was quite certain that it had been Voldemort as the star considering that a sniveling Pettigrew was present, along with a very large snake.

“That sounds a great deal like the house those people had, as you describe it,” Tom said once enlightened. “Those muggles,” he added, sneering.

He arched a brow, honestly having no clue.

Tom shook his head. “Don’t worry about it for now. If it’s the place I’m thinking of, you’ll find out for yourself, at the appropriate time. I _will_ go check, though, just to be sure. I confess to wondering if Voldemort can see me.”

“Do you think it’d be wise if he could? I mean, wouldn’t that be confusing? He’s already trying to kill me.”

Tom emitted a faint sigh and glared at him. “Do give me more credit, Joshua.”

* * *

Draco was more than happy to tell him that Hogwarts would be hosting the Triwizard Tournament that year. It was beside the point that Joshua was already aware of that. What upset Joshua, sitting later at the Gryffindor table, was the announcement that there would be no Quidditch that year, mainly due to the fact that Ronald was already whining obsessively about it, despite the fact that he was not a member of the house team.

It was not until after his name had come out of the damn cup as the fourth champion—he was beginning to dislike Halloween just on principle—that Tom informed him of Voldemort’s plan. “After all,” his friend said, “an honest reaction to what happened was preferable.”

“This is doing wonders for my reputation,” he replied dryly. “All right, fine, what’s really going on besides another attempt to kill me?”

Tom chuckled lowly and shook his head. “There is that, yes. There’s to be a ceremony at the conclusion of the tournament, which will give Voldemort back his body. Some ritual or other.” He waved a hand carelessly. “A Death Eater is impersonating your Defense professor and he will be making sure that you win the third task and get portkeyed away as the guest of honor.”

Joshua snorted. “So there’s no real point in me even trying to win, nor is there a point in me fighting the inclusion. I mean, it’s got to be all kinds of illegal for me to be magically bound to participate when it was someone else entering my name.”

“From what I can tell that’s not the way it works,” Tom disagreed. “The goblet is a powerful artifact, true, but it isn’t as though it has any sentience. There is only so much one can do with the magical structures wizards are normally able to employ. Also keep in mind when it was forged and enchanted. No, it is much more likely that the real secret behind the goblet is its rather primitive workings.

“All it gets are pieces of parchment with a name and a school. Out of the set within a single school it chooses a participant. There are, in fact, far many more schools out there than just the three acknowledged for this. Do you honestly think that people in Japan are sending their children to Durmstrang as a matter of course? Or that every Italian learns to speak English or German or Russian? No. You know full well that there’s Salem Institute in the United States, so what about them? The Triwizard Tournament is an elitist European tradition, nothing more.

“The cup only cares about a set of schools, and the names for them. If someone entered a name along with a school outside the three, it would automatically be chosen as a representative of that school. It could be true, given what I saw of the arrival of the Durmstrang students, that every single one of them entered Krum’s name, to guarantee he was chosen.

“The cup has no way of verifying that a school is real, never mind that the name on the slip is actually associated with the school given. The end result is that Voldemort’s man entered your name using a fourth school, knowing you would be picked, ensuring your participation. I admit, it was a pretty clever move on my part.”

Joshua favored him with a slightly exasperated look. “But how can I be magically bound by this?”

“I do not know the answer to that,” Tom admitted. “However, this works in our favor, so why fight it?”

He scowled. “And you’re going to try to kill me again.”

“I will be there to make sure I do not.”

Joshua laughed at that. “Have you any idea how silly that sounds? Fine, fine. Well, you get to help me figure out how to deal with whatever these tasks are. I have no intention of putting myself out trying to win them, but I can’t seem completely incompetent.”

His existence at the school, which had heretofore been a fairly quiet one, was now filled with a large number of people jeering at him, sure he was a glory-seeker who had bribed or cheated his way into the tournament. And, while it was true he was close to no one out of choice, it only went to show just how facile and fickle the public was, especially when none of them believed his initial shock and protestation, nor bothered later to actually ask any questions. The good part of things was that Ronald kept shooting him glares rather than trying to follow him like a lovesick puppy.

The first task was dragons. “How wonderful,” he commented.

“There is a book in the library, southwest quarter, fifth stack, third section, second shelf from the top, which has methods for dealing with them,” Tom informed him.

“So you’re saying the obvious route—one that the average wizard would never think of because it involves a little something called common sense—of summoning the egg would fail.”

Tom nodded. “Surprisingly, yes.”

“Maybe a muggle-born was involved,” Joshua muttered. Naturally, he sneaked into the library after hours and set to reading. It wasn’t until he ‘officially unofficially’ learned about the task (thanks to Hagrid) that he could be seen somewhat openly scouring shelves. At least he did not have to worry about any of his exam scores, not that they presented any great challenge. Still, people seeing him reading at all hours had a decent idea of why, and it was not because McGonagall was teaching them how to transfigure hedgehogs into pincushions (something which made no sense whatsoever to him).

For the task itself he drew the worst dragon there was: the Hungarian Horntail.

When his turn came up he took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself, then stepped out. It took all he had not to turn right back around. Instead, he began casting a series of charms, for de-scenting, silence, and various other things, then shot curses at the dragon’s eyes in order to blind it and confuses its senses.

All in all, it took him the longest to complete the task, in fear for his life every second it took to creep forward (trying to displace the air as gently as possible), slowly take the egg, then retreat. His scores were a curious average; high for having completed the task without damage and low for taking such an incredibly long time. He ended up in last place.

Certain Gryffindors eased up on the glares after that, but Joshua barely noticed the change. A frontal lobotomy might have changed his attitude, but without one. . . ?

Luna Lovegood was his date for the Yule Ball, one of the few females in the castle he knew just by looking would not suddenly gain outrageous expectations from the arrangement.

The second task was both easier and harder. He had no idea how to swim, for one thing. He was also hampered by the library not having something useful like a computer to cross-reference things. It was purely by chance—not—that he came across Neville reading up on water plants of the Mediterranean and noticed a bit about gillyweed. It should at least help him to flail about better underwater. He then brushed up on anything that might be found in the lake.

The actual task was on an overcast day, making it seem even colder than it was, and Joshua was well pleased to fling himself into the water even as his body was shifting to accommodate his new gills and altered appendages. He immediately looked for a ‘landmark’ to make for and began swimming, staying fairly close to the surface. Below him were various creatures peeking out from behind long waving grasses.

As he swam he experimentally attempted to cast some spells with his wand and immediately realized he had to try more than twice as hard to get any kind of results. It was almost as though the water was an insulator, or a material which absorbed magical energy. When he caught up to the ‘landmark’ he paused, turning in a slow circle and listening carefully, then set out again.

Eventually he made it to the target. Two people were there, and two empty harnesses. Luna was floating gently, her hair streaming about her like seaweed, while another girl with blonde hair—quite young looking—was in much the same condition. A check of the time revealed that his watch was dead, occasioning some mental swearing, and a quick spell revealed that nearly forty-five minutes had already passed.

‘Do I or don’t I?’ he thought, glancing at the stranger. A moment later he shook his head and released Luna from the harness, then began dragging her upward at an angle. A brief look topside showed him which direction to head in, so off he went, waiting until he could feel the gillyweed wearing off before he surfaced entirely. Luna woke up at that point.

“Nice,” was Tom’s comment when they were back on shore. “Although, now everyone knows you can’t swim.”

Joshua’s eye twitched, and he dearly wished he could respond. The judges had been divided on their scores again, but this time it was Fleur who came in last, having not retrieved her person at all.

When a story broke across the _Daily Prophet_ about Harry Potter’s love affair with Luna Lovegood he had only a wry smile to send her, which she returned in good humor, they having already discussed the possibility that she might be targeted by that nasty reporter. He wondered if her father would have a response.

By the time the third task rolled around students were mostly back to ignoring him, and Ronald would give him looks every so often, as though he wished to speak yet lacked the courage, but otherwise left him alone. Joshua was dead last in the rankings—big surprise—so he was sent in last.

He found that his path was suspiciously clear, though that was not to say he encountered nothing. More on the order of easier things, such as a boggart and a sphinx. Tom, of course, was also there, helping to guide him on the quickest route to the cup. At the entrance to a small clearing holding it was the body of Krum, who appeared to have lost a fight with some kind of creature, and which Joshua ignored to take the cup.

He shortly found himself flat on his ass somewhere else entirely. There was a bit of a scuffle where Joshua was disarmed by a lucky Pettigrew, and he was tied to a gravestone, after which Peter brought a very ugly baby-type thing to a cauldron set up nearby. Joshua assumed it was what he had seen nearly a year ago in his dream. And where the hell was Tom?

Peter, after sliding the thing into the cauldron, added a yellowing length of bone. That was followed by Peter’s right hand, hacked off with a knife. Joshua winced just seeing it. How on earth could anyone inspire _that_ kind of loyalty? And despite the self-inflicted gross injury, Peter came over to him and sliced open Joshua’s arm with a wickedly curving blade, then dripped the resulting blood in as well.

All too quickly the cauldron misted over, plumes and spills of fog billowing out, and from it stepped a man, a very snake-like man. “Robe me.”

Peter sniveled as he complied, then handed over the wand he had been using. Voldemort rather absently flicked the wand, granting Pettigrew a new, silver hand, which caused a round of bowing and scraping and more sniveling.

Joshua was dismayed to realize that, when Voldemort’s gaze turned on him, his scar exploded in pain. He was in so much pain that he wasn’t processing what the man was saying at first. That is, until his wand was tossed to him and he was being told to bow prior to a duel. He blinked. Voldemort took that as insolence and tried to use the imperius curse on him, and was subsequently surprised when it failed.

Joshua licked his lips, shrugged internally, and started making escape plans. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do without Tom there, or at least he didn’t think so. If Voldemort really was crazy, even Joshua’s name might mean nothing whatsoever. Before he could decide on anything concrete, however, Voldemort attacked.

He was starting to be very concerned for his life when a most wondrous thing happened. Their spells collided, sending up a spherical cage of light around them and softening the air with phoenix song. Joshua rather felt like he was holding the reins to a recalcitrant horse with the way his wand was acting, but before he could do much more than tighten his grip, the world collapsed.

He was suddenly aware that someone was prodding him in the side, rather impatiently, he thought. “What happened?” he muttered.

“Who are you?” a voice demanded.

Joshua opened his eyes and blinked in surprise. “Tom? Is that you?”

The other’s expression tightened. “Who are you?”

“Tom, it’s Joshua. Please say you remember me. Tom Riddle, right? Mrs Cole?”

Tom’s eyes narrowed and his chin lifted. “Your full name?”

“Joshua Blake Durand.” After a second he smirked and added, “ _Snake speaker._ ”

Tom sat down with a thump. “It really is you.”

“Yes,” he said as he carefully sat up, cataloging his aches and pains. “I’m so incredibly happy to see you again.”

“Where have you been?” Tom demanded.

Joshua opened his mouth to explain and realized very quickly he could not speak except to say, “Elsewhere.” He frowned and shook his head. “That is not what I meant to say. I was—elsewhere. Damn it.”

“I can always try veritaserum on you.”

He considered that and shrugged. “If you have some. Or can get some.”

Tom looked at him speculatively. “Have you at least been receiving an education? Your clothing suggests so, though I must say the colours you have on are hideous.”

Joshua looked down at his competition tunic and grimaced. “Yes, I have been, at—elsewhere. Right.” He sighed and looked away briefly. “What about Legilimency?”

Tom arched a brow. “Perhaps. That aside, seeing as how you are here. . . .”

“But for how long?” he whispered. “When is it?”

He was awarded a suspicious look for that, but received a ready enough answer. “The twelfth of June, 1942.” After a heartbeat Tom added, “The end of my fourth year here.”

Joshua took a good look around, his eyes widening. “Hogwarts,” he breathed. “Think they have room for one more student?”

Tom’s mouth thinned drastically, something like anger sparking in his eyes, but toward what, Joshua could not tell. “Well, Headmaster Dippet is a bit of a fool. It should be easy enough to get you in. Though, I expect you would end up back at the orphanage.”

Joshua smiled. “But I’d be with you. I don’t know why I left originally. I certainly didn’t want to go. I was happy. But then I found myself back with those people. But don’t worry,” he said, a smirk forming. “I just thought of what you’d do. That set them straight. They’re afraid of me, of what I can do to them.”

Tom finally relaxed, a faint smile stretching his lips. He nodded. “I think it should be no trouble. You should have been on the list anyway. We could spin a tale about tutors? But I think you should alter your appearance, just in case. Mrs Cole can always be induced to overlook the change. The train back is tomorrow, so we should hurry.”

“Okay, um. . . .” He thought about it for a few minutes then decided on a style rather different from his natural appearance, something like his experimentation at the orphanage had produced. His hair turned a very pale butter-type colour, longer in the front but close cut at the back, and his eyes changed to a pale green shade. A few tweaks to other things and he felt confident for the moment. He had discovered, during his forays into reading anything he could get his hands on, that what he was doing was an ability, not a spell, which made it very advantageous. He just needed to study himself enough in the coming days to be able to switch to this appearance at will, without having to think about it.

“Come on,” Tom said as he stood. “Let’s go.”


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 3-12 November 2009
> 
>  **Notes** : Some of the phrases used are completely OOC in terms of time, as far as I know. I’m using them anyway.

As it turned out Tom was correct; Dippet was a dithery sort of person and very easily confunded into doing as they wished. The next thing Joshua knew it had been acknowledged that an invitation had been prepared, but had somehow gotten lost (and the less said about that the better), so Dippet was pleased to extend another, plus arrange for him to have access to the Hogwarts assistance fund for his supplies. He also did not quibble over Joshua’s class choices, nor even ask him to test in any of them. A quick sorting got that aspect of things out of the way, as well; he was in Slytherin, of course.

Joshua spent the night in Tom’s dormitory, sharing the bed, and he found he did not mind. The other boys had been cowed into not asking questions. The train ride was much the same except that they warded the compartment to keep everyone out.

“I filched some veritaserum from Slughorn’s stocks,” Tom informed him.

Joshua nodded. “All right. You want to do this now, or wait?”

“No time like the present.” Tom was destined to be frustrated, however, as Joshua would only give answers which were singularly unhelpful, such as the dreaded “elsewhere” from before. Eventually he gave up in disgust.

“Sorry,” Joshua said quietly. “I want to tell you.”

“I know.” Tom looked out the window for several minutes before turning back to say, “Were you at least happy?”

He snorted lightly. “No, not really. Something wonderful happened a bit over two years ago, but even as welcome as that was, it couldn’t make up for having to leave in the first place. It’s like the atmosphere is a slow-acting poison, and people are fickle bastards who spend so much time convincing themselves that lies are truth, especially when the truth is so inconvenient.”

“Good to know,” Tom said dryly.

“I was in a fight,” he said suddenly, feeling surprised that he could say it at all. “I was in a fight in a graveyard right before I ended up back here. I thought I might die. Something really strange happened, and then I was with you.”

A brow was slowly arched.

He started to say more and immediately choked up, then shook his head. “Sorry.”

Tom waved a hand carelessly. “We’ll try Legilimency later, but I lean toward thinking that it’s going to be impossible. Still, I know you.” The corner of his mouth curled up.

Mrs Cole was easy enough to handle, and Joshua was welcomed back almost as though he had never left. She was also happy to hear that he would be receiving the same education as Tom. That being the case, the two boys retired out back to the ragged excuse for a garden where they were met by the snake.

“ _You return.”_

Tom nodded and took a seat, absently tossing up some rudimentary wandless wards. “Do you know what’s going on presently?”

Joshua tilted his head, considering the real meaning. After taking a seat of his own he shook his head. “Not really.”

Tom frowned slightly and sighed. “We’re in the middle of World War II,” he said softly. “The Germans do bombing raids on London. Don’t you think it’s interesting? Muggles send their children off to the countryside, to live with relatives or friends, to get them away from the terror. But us? We, orphans, magical children, are left here in the thick of things. Our own people don’t even care to see to our safety.”

Thinking about it, Joshua could sort of understand why Voldemort might have gone mental, at least in part. Yet, he wondered how it was that he had gained the support of so many pure-bloods, when it had to be, at least in part, their inaction which had left Tom alone and unprotected in muggle London during war. From what he had seen during his years in the magical world, it was mostly run by pure-bloods, or influenced by them, even if half-bloods and muggle-borns had some roles. Did the muggle-born contingent press for their safety? Or did they even realize? The half-bloods?

Voldemort was more of a puzzle than he had imagined, and he felt ashamed that he had allowed himself to see the man in such stark terms prior to having found the diary. It was unlike him. Perhaps those Gryffindors were having a detrimental effect on him after all. He knew very well that his treatment at the hands of the Dursleys had an effect on him, helped to shape him, just as his time at the orphanage had. And the one person who had the most influence in his life was Tom. Even not knowing who the person behind Voldemort was, he had read enough history that he should have realized it just could not be that simple.

And so here was another reason for the pile, another piece of the puzzle. He wondered, staring at his friend, ‘For how long this time? How long before I get snatched away?’ To the snake he said, “ _I am pleased to see you again.”_

“ _You were missing for many summers. It is well you are back.”_

“So, tell me about the people you know at Hogwarts.”

Tom informed him (rather smugly) that he had learned he was a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin—had learned this during his first year—and that Slytherin had left a secret chamber in the castle. “I’m still researching that,” he said, “and I think I’m close.”

Somehow, Joshua knew he would never be able to explain that one, and would have to ‘find out’ alongside Tom.

It turned out there were six boys at Hogwarts who were under Tom’s wing, so to speak. It seemed he was rather intimidating to others; Joshua smirked at that. The other boys seemed content to take direction from him, and looked up to him due to his heritage. The others, while they might not be aware of the specifics of his bloodline, recognized him as a power of some kind and acted accordingly.

Sort of like how the Dursleys recognized that he could really screw up their lives if they got out of line, even though he had never done anything flashy.

“Is all this leading up to something?” he asked, knowing full well it must be.

Tom looked sly for a moment, a faint smile flitting across his lips. “I suppose you could say that. But none of them are like you.”

Joshua felt quite honored by that, and said so. After all, he had been missing for four years from Tom’s life. To be accepted back so quickly was wondrous. “I’ll help, of course. I’ve continued to keep working wandless. I’ve been reading as much as I can get my hands on, including the advanced stuff, things normally restricted from people our age. Exploring, manipulating people when needful, and other things. I always kept in mind that I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.” He laughed strangely for a moment. “That almost makes it sound like I idolize you, and I guess I do in a way, but not. . . . Let’s just say you’re still the only person I trust.”

Over the course of the summer Tom filled him in on who was a part of his group. The only surname he really recognized was Nott, and that was because of Theodore Nott in Slytherin of his original time. Avery, Dolohov, Lestrange, Mulciber, and Rosier were not ones which really rang bells.

“One of the things I greatly despise about the present situation,” Tom told him, “is that we as magical people are not, in fact, separated from the muggles. Yes, we have places which are ours only, but those are few and far between. The school, Hogsmeade, and Diagon Alley. That’s it, really. Everything else is mixed. Ancient pure-blood lines might live on grand estates, but everyone else generally has to mix with muggles.

“Where is the sense in that? Why are you and I subject to a muggle war? And on top of that there’s Grindelwald out there with his mantra ‘For the Greater Good’. Greater good for who? Us? Or him? One man decides that this is the way things should be, and we should all just bow down and accept like sheep? He wants us to establish superiority over the muggles.

“Has he even paid attention to what they’re capable of? They’re dropping bombs on us, Joshua, killing hundreds, thousands. That dictator over in Germany is killing millions. And Grindelwald thinks it’s a good idea for us to somehow establish superiority against that kind of killing power?” Tom shook his head.

“You think we should separate for real?” he asked softly. “How?”

“I don’t know yet. I just know that Grindelwald must be insane. No rational person would do the things he does.”

“He might even be helping them, if it means that many more muggles die,” he commented. “What do you think about muggles?”

Tom sneered lightly before saying, “I consider them inferior. However, lack of magic aside, they are much like us. Some are good and some are bad. They’re people. I may not like a lot of the children here, but that is partly because they _are_ children, and children are cruel. But even the adults might not be likable if they knew about us, if they feared us. I don’t like a lot of the students at school, either, but mainly because they see a house designation and immediately assume everyone within is exactly the same, even as they believe that the ones in their own house are all individuals. As honored as I am to be a descendant of Slytherin, I do at times believe the founders made unwise choices, like the house system.”

“What do you know of Slytherin himself?”

“Not as much as I would like,” Tom admitted. “I can’t find any clear reason why he allegedly left, and rumor paints a picture of a man of the Dark Arts, who despised muggle-borns for security reasons and their supposed impure blood. People never seem to understand that magic is magic. There is no black and white, there is no dark and light, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.”

Joshua pursed his lips. “Like how a spell you learn early on can be used to kill someone, yet it’s considered light?”

“Mm. Yes. Intent, usage, they matter.” Tom’s gaze fixed on his. “I’ve tried these so-called Dark Arts. They don’t feel any different from Light Arts.” He shook his head slowly. “They usually require more power, though, more finesse. Often, more emotion. I certainly don’t feel some strange urge to keep doing them, as though I can’t help myself. It is true that most of them cannot be used easily in a Light manner.”

Joshua shrugged. “You’ll have to show me at some point? How do you feel about muggle-born security?”

Tom arched a brow and turned the question back on him.

“I don’t actually know how the average muggle-born is handled. I mean, are their families placed under an oath or anything to prevent them from leaking the secret? Do the muggle-borns even get any kind of help adjusting to the magical world? I mean, I can see where they might be a risk, especially if they get through their schooling, and then decide not to stay. Though”—he frowned—“why they wouldn’t, I’m not sure I understand. Why go through seven years and then give it all up? Do they do what I do? I’ve been keeping up with muggle subjects as best I can, not because I plan to forsake the magical world, but because I think it’s prudent to know what they’re capable of.

“I mean, I’ve noticed. It’s like the magical world is stagnant. Nothing seems to encourage creativity, advances, or innovation. Half the stuff I’ve been taught doesn’t seem to have any relation to real-world use. It’s rather like how the average muggle would need basic mathematics, but higher than that? They’ll never use it, and they’ll just forget it. They’re not all scientists or engineers. How many people are going to remember or find a use for changing a matchstick into a needle? It’s one thing if it’s part of some grand plan to get students into the idea, but otherwise. . . .

“I think they’re a risk if there are no oaths involved. I think they’re a risk if they come in, take one look around, and decide that so many things need to change, because it doesn’t suit their notions. Some things probably do need to change, but not everything. I don’t see why there are celebrations of Christian holidays. I certainly don’t remember being one.

“On the other hand, if we really were separate, how would that work? Muggle-borns get born. What happens to them then, if we’re somehow separate? I also wonder how other countries deal with them. Actually, I feel kind of funny talking about it, because you and I were raised as muggles, essentially.”

“But we’re not muggles.”

“No. But do we know what our parents were?”

Tom declined to respond to that.

In August they made their way to Diagon Alley, to Gringotts, to access the Hogwarts assistance fund, then purchased their supplies for the year, not to mention a few small treats. “I wonder if people who have had to use the fund contribute to it later?” Joshua mused while sitting outside Fortescue’s.

“Perhaps, but don’t speak of it out here in the open,” Tom said quietly.

Joshua quirked a brow, but nodded. It might be that no one aside from the staff was aware that Tom needed the use of it—was he ashamed? He leaned in closer and said softly, “If you’re a descendant of Slytherin, have you ever inquired at the bank about it?”

“There was nothing,” Tom said sneeringly. “So if there is anything, it’s not there. And frankly, I’m not sure I trust Gringotts anyway. Or at least, those running it. Goblins are exceptionally vicious, and I do not refer to all the times when they’ve rebelled against the strictures of wizards.”

He wrinkled his nose. “They do, I admit, tend to look at us like we’re bugs or something. I wonder if there are any accurate books about them.”

“I’ll show you what I have,” Tom promised. “I do have reasons for my beliefs, and it’s not based so much on what that hack of a history professor tells us.”

“Then what? What if we go out and make money?”

“We investigate the least damaging vault set ups, and use them for a portion of our earnings. The rest goes elsewhere. Either out of the country, or someplace we devise ourselves. We are not unintelligent. We are not untalented. We will find a way.”

Joshua believed him. If there was one thing he had learned that had been said about Tom Riddle, it was that he was exceptionally brilliant.

Tom suddenly looked beyond his shoulder, a cold smile sliding into place. A few seconds later a shadow fell across the table. “Ah. Joshua, allow me to introduce Rhisiart Lestrange. Lestrange, this is Joshua Durand.”

As Joshua turned in his seat he heard a murmured, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

He nodded. “Likewise.” He thought about offering for him to stay, but thought that it was best to leave that to Tom.

“Joshua will be joining us at Hogwarts. I’m certain you will make every effort to accommodate him, and pass that along to the others.”

Rhisiart nodded immediately. “Of course.” The look on his face said he understood a lot more than was said.

Joshua lifted his chin slightly and aimed a faint smirk at the other boy. The Lestranges were an older pure-blood family; might as well attempt to be on the right foot from the start.

Lestrange smiled thinly and nodded again. “I shall see you both at school, then. Good day.” Then he left, walking away to be quickly lost in the crowd.

“Nicely done,” Tom complimented.

He smiled and ate the last of his ice cream.

By the time the train ride rolled around he had had another, more in-depth briefing about Tom’s ‘friends’. They all had overlooked Tom’s blatantly not pure-blood last name in favor of his obvious power and his Slytherin connection. It stood to reason they would overlook his own, simply based on his closeness to Tom. But that did not mean he could be lazy about things. He must prove to Tom he was worth the effort and belief. “Do they know you’re a snake speaker?”

“Yes. And if they know you are one, they will believe you are also descended from Slytherin, thus deserving the same respect.”

“Are they the only ones?”

“To my knowledge. I expect I would have heard rumors by now otherwise,” Tom replied.

Joshua considered, keeping in mind his thoughts that the portraits of Hogwarts played spy in his time. “And what about the staff? I sincerely doubt if they knew they would gossip where students could hear.”

“Perhaps,” Tom said shortly.

Joshua shook his head briskly and decided to change the subject. “Have you done any work on an animagus transformation? I’ve considered it, but I feared to try much by myself.”

“Don’t worry. You have me.”

They were interrupted when Lestrange stopped by to greet them, followed by Schuyler Nott, Terrell Mulciber, Antonin Dolohov, Ward Rosier, and Patrick Avery. Each of them showed deference to Joshua, so it was clear that Lestrange had passed along Tom’s instructions.

The opening feast was strange due only to the fact that he was seated clear across the Great Hall from his usual location, but he felt comfortable there. Not only did he have Tom, but he was with more like-minded people.

Fifth year went smoothly. Joshua was no longer afraid to practice in his own house. And besides, his fellow Slytherins seeing him at work only reinforced in their minds his power, never mind what happened when his dorm mates ‘accidentally’ overheard him and Tom conversing in Parseltongue one evening. Between OWL preparation, animagus transformations, exploration with Tom regarding the secret chamber of Slytherin, and various other magical feats which they would never normally learn until years later, he was kept quite busy.

It was in May that Tom finally unlocked the way to the chamber. Surprisingly, it was via a girls’ bathroom, which did not make much sense given that back in the time of the founders they would not have had modern indoor facilities; they had seen evidence of the original privies in their wanderings. He did not even want to think about how much trouble it must have been during the original construction of the castle to work them in. And then later, what magic must have been employed for updates?

He then decided that a descendant must have made an alternate entrance. The question became: would whoever it was have disabled the original entrance? Even so, who in their right mind would have used a bathroom as an entrance?

He snapped out of his musings when a hissed command to “ _open_ ” caused one of the sinks to shift out of sight and reveal a pipe large enough for a large man to slide through.

Joshua snorted quietly. “Right, and to get back? Or to close it behind us?”

Tom aimed a smirk at him. “Not to worry. For one thing, opening the entrance automatically locks down this room, so no one is getting in without a great deal of effort. For another, on the way out, there is a command to bring us back up. Though, I would prefer to find a better entrance than this. I do have serious issues with the idea of Salazar Slytherin entering his private domain in quite this manner, after all, as this is terribly undignified.” Tom verified that the door leading out was indeed sealed, then slid into the pipe.

He waited until he could hear Tom’s voice echoing up strangely before he jumped in, not wishing to crash-land on his friend, and eventually ended up on the damp floor of a dark stone tunnel large enough to stand in, littered with small animal bones which _crunched_ unpleasantly as he moved to get to his feet.

“Shall we?” Tom invited, moving his illuminated wand to the side, revealing the only way to go.

Joshua produced his own wand and cast _Lumos_ , then nodded, and followed as the tunnel stretched out endlessly. Around a bend was yet more tunnel, bathed in inky black. “I think torches are in order for next time, or something along those lines.”

The tunnel turned and turned again, and then at last, as they walked around yet another bend, he saw a solid wall ahead on which two entwined serpents were carved, their eyes set with great, glinting emeralds.

“ _Open_ ,” said Tom, in a low, faint hiss.

The serpents parted as the wall cracked open, the halves sliding smoothly out of sight, and they stepped through into a very long, dimly-lit chamber. Towering stone pillars entwined with more carved serpents rose to support a ceiling lost in darkness, casting long black shadows through the odd, greenish gloom that filled the place.

He exchanged a glance with Tom, then moved forward, and as they drew up level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. He looked up into the giant face above; it was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous grey feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor.

“Amazing,” Tom breathed. “But there has to be more to this than a self-aggrandizing statue.”

Joshua checked the time and said, “It took us twenty minutes to get this far.”

Tom glanced around and nodded. “We’ll take a half hour to investigate, then head back. It probably won’t hurt if we keep trying to open things, on the off chance there are any hidden doors. I’ll go left, you go right, and we meet back here.”

“All right.” He was alerted about twenty minutes later by a shout, and quickly went to rejoin Tom.

“There’s a door here, behind the statue. Looks like a . . . study?” Tom began casting spells to see if there were any wards present, then stepped inside.

Joshua followed, looking around curiously. One of the walls contained glass-fronted cases, with what looked like manuscripts inside, and perhaps scrolls.

Tom growled in frustration. “We don’t have time to check this now. We’ll have to return tomorrow.” Back at the end of the tunnel he said, “While standing right at the pipe, say ‘exit’ in Parseltongue. It’ll bring you back up. I’ll give you a minute and then follow.”

They made it back to the dorm with no trouble, having disillusioned themselves to avoid the caretaker or anyone else taking a late night stroll. Tom was frustrated yet happy at the same time. Subsequent trips revealed an external entrance to the Chamber, and gave them time to check the wealth of reading material left behind, one in particular causing Tom to become extraordinarily pleased. “I can be immortal,” he said, excitement colouring his voice.

Joshua thought long and hard about saying something, anything, but in the end remained silent. He knew it was to happen, so there was no point in trying to interfere. He only wondered if he should, at some point, make one of his own. Could he murder in cold blood in order to assure that he could be revived after death? To be able to stay with Tom? Or had he already given some of his soul to Tom the night his blood helped to revive Voldemort?

He was going over his Arithmancy notes in preparation for the OWLs coming up when Tom burst into the dorm room, his face flushed and his eyes a bit wild.

“There’s been a death.”

Joshua arched a brow and slowly set his parchments down. “ _You have created a soul receptacle?_ ”

Tom paused, visibly bringing his emotions in line. “ _No_ ,” he hissed back. “ _I—_ ”

“ _Just in case,_ ” he said, cutting Tom off, “ _do not tell me the details yet? Those can wait._ ”

Tom hummed in agreement. “ _Wise. But we should avoid that bathroom from now on. We’ll have to use the outside entrance, no matter the inconvenience, and continue to look for others within the castle itself._ ” 1

Joshua nodded. He could only assume the basilisk was involved, even if he had yet to see it; he knew it was down there. “Will you help me study? OWLs are almost upon us.”

It wasn’t until almost a week later that anyone found Myrtle Watkin’s body. The Ravenclaws seemed almost not to notice she was missing, they all disliked her so, and even when they did report it, searches began on the fifth floor and spread up and down from there. Myrtle’s ghost had appeared by then, stalking Olive Hornby to make her pay for teasing her about her glasses.

The first week of OWLs (and NEWTs) was quite subdued as a result, and also because of the rumors flying rampant that the Ministry of Magic was talking about closing the school. Nobody seemed to have any idea of exactly how Myrtle had died, but the staff was calling it a freak accident. Joshua had shaken his head at that; a freak accident was hardly cause to shut things down. Those who had spoken to her ghost related that all she saw at the time was a male figure and a set of huge yellow eyes. But then she was dead.

Joshua kept his head down and continued to study and take exams. The whole castle was in an uproar the Monday morning starting the second week of exams. The culprit had been exposed the evening before by none other than Tom Riddle: Rubeus Hagrid, third year Gryffindor. By the time the week was over, and all exams were done, Hagrid had been expelled, Tom had been given an award for special services to the school, and forbidden to speak of the incident. The school would remain open.

They went home the next day.

“I wonder when we’ll get our results,” Joshua mused. “With our letters, or before?”

“I believe OWL students get them early, so they can plan which classes to continue with. That gives us time to inform the school so we can receive the proper book lists. I’m confident we—”

The door opened and Walburga Black entered without invitation, rather shocking Joshua. A sidelong glance at Tom showed he was angry. “Riddle,” she said, then looked at Joshua and practically purred, “Durand.”

Tom lifted his chin and adopted an icy glare. “Did you want something, Black?”

“I thought I might invite you two to visit this holiday. Get to know each other better. It’s going to be my last year next, after all, and we never seem to find the time to talk.” She eyed Joshua rather proprietarily.

“We’ll have to see if we can fit it into our schedule,” Tom said coldly. “Now if you’ll excuse us, you have interrupted our conversation.”

Walburga frowned, but nodded and backed out, closing the door behind her.

Joshua immediately threw up wards and turned to his friend. “What the devil was that about? Did you see the way she was looking at me?”

Tom sneered. “She’s toying with you. In all likelihood her parents have already arranged a pure-blood match. There is no way they would ever look at you due to the uncertainty of your blood. She just wants a bit of fun, to use you. I won’t have it. Nobody uses you that way. Nobody.”

“Why me? Why not you?”

Tom aimed a smirk at him. “Perhaps she prefers blonds?”

Joshua shuddered. “She’ll start having unfortunate accidents if this happens again, Tom. I’ll not be someone’s plaything.”

“And I’ll help,” Tom promised. “Has anything else bothered you with inappropriate offers?”

“No. Then again, I don’t spend much time with other people, do I.”

“You should probably be more social, though I admit, that opens the possibility of more people like Black coming forward. If you plan to stand at my side, you should be more involved.”

Joshua gazed at him thoughtfully, still wondering for just how long he would even be with Tom this time, but acknowledged the point as valid. Then he smirked. “Somehow I don’t think I can get a pretty new name out of my own the way you did yours.”

Tom chuckled lowly. “No, probably not. We’ll think of something appropriate.”

The trolley lady had come and gone when Tom said out of the blue, “I plan to track down my living family this summer. I did research before you came back, you see. My mother’s name was Merope Gaunt, according to the birth record the orphanage made. She gave birth to me there, and lived long enough to name me.”

“What about your father?”

“I don’t know. I just know that I’m named for him. My middle name is that of my maternal grandfather’s. I’m hoping to find out what happened, why she ended up at the orphanage, why I wasn’t with my father. I have learned that the Gaunts are a pure-blood family, but I could find no record that my mother attended Hogwarts.”

“That’s strange,” he said softly. “But, maybe if there was nothing at Gringotts, they were too poor, and possibly too proud, for her to go?”

“Perhaps. I’d like to see if there’s anything on record about them at the ministry, but I’d rather not be seen as myself to do so.” Tom looked at him speculatively.

“Is there some other reason the two of us could visit there? I know what I do isn’t a spell, so I can be anyone I wish to be. Well, preferably after we’re already inside.”

“There are tours,” Tom said slowly. “Usually for students, to help them get a better idea of a job they might wish to strive for. It’s not a perfect idea. On level two is the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but also some archives accessible to the public. The other option might be to check to see if any of them were mentioned in the _Daily Prophet_.”

They were able to find, with a little digging and judicious use of misdirection, the information that the Gaunt family lived in Little Hangleton. They spent a day checking the town out, locating the Gaunt home—though in truth, it was more of a shack—and returned to the orphanage to plan. On their return, not long before their OWL results came, Joshua remained outside the Gaunt home as a lookout, though neither of them really expected anyone to interrupt them.

He could hear raised voices inside.

“You! You!” was bellowed, but not by Tom, and then it went quiet and Joshua was hard pressed not to step inside to see what was going on. A short time later he could hear, “Dishonored us, she did, that little slut! And who’re you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It’s over innit. . . . It’s over.”

About fifteen minutes later Tom came out, his expression stiff and cold. “Wait here,” he said quietly, then jerked his head at the shack. “He’s under a very powerful stunner at the moment, so he shouldn’t give you any trouble. There’s a little something I need to take care of. Once I’m done I’ll return here, finish up, and then we can go.”

“All right,” he said quickly, and watched as Tom slipped off into the darkness. It was an hour before his friend returned, but he seemed perfectly well, though his eyes were a bit wild.

“A few small tasks, and we’re done.” Tom slipped back into the Gaunt home, returning in less than ten minutes, and the only thing different Joshua noticed was a golden glint on one of Tom’s fingers. “Let’s return home, shall we?”

* * *

1  I am seriously ambivalent about whether or not the Chamber of Secrets has an outside entrance. It should have one, for I have problems believing the basilisk could hibernate for hundreds of years straight. At the same time, Voldemort could have used it as an invasion path (though I suppose he preferred having others play vanguard). I suppose Draco in canon was given that task, more to play with the Malfoy family, and not because it was necessary.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 12 November 2009 - 06 April 2010
> 
> Sources conflict on exactly when certain Horcruxes were created. I’m going with HPL timeline data and logic—JKR creates way too many contradictions with her interview info.

“So what was all that about? You seemed terribly angry.”

“That was me finding out that my grandfather and uncle were abusive and more than a little crazy, and my father was a muggle who abandoned my mother because she was a witch,” Tom said heatedly.

Joshua bit his lip, thinking, then said, “I get the feeling someone died.” He wanted to sigh. On the one hand he was somewhat upset at the idea. Killing a person could not be an easy thing to do. On the other hand, he could understand to a degree why Tom might go after these people. After all, hadn’t they long held to the idea that if someone did bad to them, bad happened back?

Tom took a moment to answer, his gaze distant. “Yes.”

“How do you feel about it?”

“I don’t know yet,” Tom said, shaking his head. “I just don’t know yet.”

Joshua moved closer, sitting beside his friend and leaning against him. He smiled when Tom’s arm wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him closer. “ _You know, I’m kind of surprised that you didn’t try to make a Horcrux when Myrtle was killed._ ”

“ _Not in the school, not with Dumbledore there. He watches me, you know that, when he can. He doesn’t trust me. Besides, it’s not like I knew she would be there, so I wasn’t prepared. Also, it wasn’t a direct kill, so I’m not sure it would have counted._ ”

Joshua hummed. “Why not this time? I know you intend to.”

There was a pause before Tom said, “I am somewhat ashamed to admit that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was too angry at what I had learned to give that any thought.”

He nudged Tom with his elbow. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Tom released him and turned sideways, looking at him almost incredulously. “Did you . . . just scold me?”

Joshua flashed a smile. “Mm. You deserved it. I’m not your yes-man, Tom, I’m your friend and I care about you. Don’t think I won’t speak up when I believe you’re acting recklessly or thoughtlessly. Now, what’s with the ring?”

Tom looked down, his hand rising and fingers flexing. “It’s been in the family a very long time according to my uncle. My mother had a locket said to be owned by Slytherin, but that’s missing now. She was gone by the time he returned from Azkaban. Seems he was sent there for three years after hexing my father, and then also claiming he did nothing wrong and trying to resist arrest. She must have taken it with her. Maybe she sold it. It must have been the only thing of value she possessed.”

“I’m sure you’ll find it,” he said confidently, moving to lean against Tom again.

* * *

Their results arrived soon after. Tom got straight Outstandings. Joshua did with the exception of a Exceeds Expectations in Astronomy.

“It isn’t the end of the world. Let’s send back our choices so we can get our lists. The sooner the better.”

Their trip to Diagon Alley was taken not much later and they set to studying their text books, preferring to be well prepared for the year ahead. Joshua had to wonder again just when he might be snatched away. Would he make it though the rest of his schooling first? And if so, when exactly would he return to? Would he be missing for all that time like before, or would he return to the moment he left from?

That year he made a concerted effort to spend more time with Tom’s group, talking with them, and getting to know them better. They might respect him, but he had been unapproachable thus far, so if Tom thought he ought to be more sociable, he would try his best. He was dragged along by Tom to one of Slughorn’s ‘Slug Club’ meetings one night, and expected to mingle.

Oh, Slughorn also thought Joshua was a very bright student and had invited him previously, but he had begged off. It seemed Tom was no longer willing to let it slide. As a result Joshua got to see a different side to his Potions professor. The man had always been jovial, and remarkably tolerant when it came to issues of house affiliation and even blood purity, but he could now be seen as a man who liked to attract talent. Apparently, Slughorn would single out the best and brightest, as well as those from families with excellent contacts, and cultivate them, help them, and in turn, later on in life, gain favors back. An interesting system, all told.

As Tom was acknowledged as the most brilliant student Hogwarts had seen in some time, naturally he was a favorite of Slughorn. The group of young men began spending extra time around the professor, and Tom took those times to ask Slughorn his opinion on a great many things, eventually leading up to a question regarding Horcruxes and whether or not it made sense magically and arithmantically for a person to employ such methods to go with six of them, thus ending up with a seven-part soul.

Slughorn looked shocked at the question. “You wouldn’t—?”

“Oh, no,” Tom assured him. “It’s just that I ran across the subject, and you know how interested I am in Arithmancy, how fascinating I find the discipline. It made me wonder. I’m asking you because you have an appreciation for knowledge for the _sake_ of knowledge. Besides, you’ve met so many people and learned so many things.”

Joshua wondered if Tom might be laying it on a bit thick, but Slughorn had begun smiling again, so he supposed not.

“Seven is a very powerful number,” Slughorn said, nodding. “Many structures are based around it, as it strengthens and improves. I could speculate if someone were to do something like create Horcruxes that having a seven-part soul might be strengthened in the same manner. But there might be unanticipated side effects, ones which would not be advantageous. I have never heard of anyone doing that before. I do recall hearing that Herpo the Foul was the first recorded to have ever created a Horcrux, but as far as I know, he made only the one.” Then he laughed. “Of course, rumor also has it that his Horcrux was destroyed by the venom from his basilisk, which is rather ironic in a way.”

Tom chuckled and nodded. “Yes, I can imagine. So, is there anything special we should be looking forward to this year?”

Slughorn immediately started rambling about something or other, gesticulating flamboyantly, but Joshua was far too interested in looking at his friend to listen closely. A part of him was questioning not only the danger inherent in what Tom was planning, but also why his gaze seemed to spend so much time on his friend’s face of late. He smiled crookedly when Tom glanced over at him, then looked away.

Was it possible, given what he knew of Voldemort, that having so many Horcruxes was what sent him insane? Or at least mentally damaged him? Should he argue the point, later in private? What would be would be, right? His gaze slid back over to Tom’s face. So if he was able to argue the point, it might not make a difference in the long run. But not doing so—would that make him untrue to his friend? He decided better to try and fail than fail to try and possibly suffer real, well-deserved guilt for his inaction.

“Have you given any thought to what he said?” he asked later on, sitting on Tom’s bed behind privacy wards and closed curtains. “About deleterious side effects?”

Tom shrugged. “Nothing in that material suggested there would be problems.”

“Tom, nothing in that material suggested that making more than one Horcrux was wise, either. There was no data on what could or would happen if multiple attempts were made,” he said fiercely. “Do you honestly think that splintering your soul so much won’t carry consequences? That it won’t change you? You might not be you anymore! You might become a stranger to me. What if it weakens your magic? What if it affects your mind?”

“And there’s nothing saying it would,” Tom said rather carelessly.

Joshua huffed. “What’s-her-face—Wenlock—she didn’t even discover the properties of the number seven until well after Slytherin wrote those things down. Salazar wouldn’t have known. He probably wouldn’t have had any reason to consider making more than one. Besides which, there’s no evidence he ever made any.”

“What, are you going to tell me I shouldn’t do it?” Tom said defiantly, his nostrils flaring. “That I shouldn’t obtain immortality? Do you think I can’t handle it?”

“No! Damn it.” Joshua reached out to push Tom’s knee. “I just want you to _think_. I know you. I know you’re going to make at least one, and I know you’ll succeed. Just please, consider the potential consequences. I don’t want to see you harm yourself due to blithe overconfidence. You’re brilliant, but you’re not infallible!”

Tom’s mouth twitched oddly. “You care about me.”

“You know I do,” he said softly.

There was a long pause. “I . . . care about your opinion,” Tom said a bit stiffly. “I will consider what you’ve said.”

Joshua nodded, and immediately changed the subject. “You noticed, right? That Hagrid fellow is still at Hogwarts.”

Tom sneered. “Dumbledore’s doing, I hear. He convinced Dippet to take the boy on to be trained as a gamekeeper. Interfering old menace, always poking that long nose into everything and anything. I hate him.”

“As do I.”

Tom looked at him askance, then nodded.

It was on Halloween, very late, that Joshua noticed Tom returning to the dorm with a very familiar book: the diary. He knew immediately that his friend had somehow managed to slip out of the school long enough to find a sacrifice. Either that, or he would be hearing soon enough that someone else in the school had died. But, he did not think Tom would be so foolish as to draw Dumbledore’s attention so keenly, not after the accidental death of Myrtle.

He arched a brow as he watched his friend secure the diary in his trunk, then studied Tom’s face carefully. He looked fine. “ _Decided on where to keep that safe?_ ”

“ _I’m not sure, though I may place it in the Chamber for the time being,_ ” Tom hissed.

“ _Maybe wherever we figure out to store our money?_ ” he suggested.

“Perhaps.”

Schoolwork, pumping Slughorn for information, socializing, and research brought him through most of the rest of the year. Not only were they continuing to learn new material and spells, but also to remove the verbal component to casting. For many students this was a difficult issue, even though they had to have known it was coming. What adult spent time shouting incantations, after all? For Joshua and Tom it was not much different from their years of wandless will magic, which had never required any verbalization, so they had it much easier.

A slight break was had during February, when several officials from the ministry came by every Saturday to give the sixth years lessons in apparation. Apparently the headmaster had fine enough control over the wards of the castle (or some of them, anyway) to lift the apparation wards for the Great Hall, allowing them to practice. Unfortunately, Joshua would have to wait until August to test, unlike those of his classmates who would be old enough in April to do so early.

He also finally got to meet the basilisk in the Chamber, mainly for it to be able to scent him and know he was off-limits as prey. It would not do, after all, for him to have to take refuge down there and be confronted with a gigantic snake angered by encroachment on its territory.

That summer they went on a hiking trip around some of the islands which surrounded the main landmass of the United Kingdom. True, a number of inattentive folks lost money, and some work was traded for food or straw in a barn to sleep the night on, but as they were hardly rich they had to make do with what they could. Tom was of a mind to imagine the possibilities of where to create a special vault which would not be so obvious as to be anywhere near London, or even the school. It wasn’t like they would have to cross to mainland Europe, though that was another option.

It was during that trip that Tom chose to make his second Horcrux, this time using a muggle rapist as the sacrifice for the Gaunt ring. Joshua watched, much as he did not want to, as Tom stunned both aggressor and victim, then cast the killing curse on the man, followed by another spell to implant the split part of his soul into the ring. Thus, Joshua knew exactly how to make a Horcrux of his own, though he held no plans to do so anytime soon. Why take the risk when he had no real notion of how they had affected his friend, the man who became Voldemort?

The victim was healed up and her memory of the incident removed, Tom having gained the skill to do so. Joshua was still a bit shaky on that and needed practice, and besides, he had not quite seen his seventeenth birthday.

The creation of that Horcrux had the result of Joshua experiencing a crisis of conscience. He knew that Tom was far more cold than he was, and far less caring in general about the lives of others. It boded well that the sacrifice was a bad man, and something bad had happened back, yet that man’s actions were not directly related to them, rather to another. Was it wrong to have stopped him permanently? Was it actually possible for someone to be rehabilitated after such crimes? He tried to think of if he had a sister, and it had been her. How likely would it have been for him to kill the man? He might not believe so much in black and white, or dark and light, but there was a wrong and right, even if perspective played a huge role in any of it.

In the end he said nothing, and Tom did not comment on his exceptionally thoughtful demeanor.

“We need to begin experiments on phase-shifting of space,” Tom said bright and early one morning as they were making breakfast over an open campfire.

“For the vault?”

“Yes, among other things. If we can phase-shift even a small area and key it only to ourselves, it should be more or less inviolate, and invisible to muggles.”

“What about dead-space?”

Tom arched a questioning brow.

“Where do we go when we portkey or apparate? We pass through something, but are we just moving so fast through normal space that we’re like . . . un-phased? Like a collection of tiny pieces which slips through other matter? Or are we moving through a different, er, dimension? One that’s like our reality folded so that we travel near instantaneously from one spot to another, at least with apparation. If so, could we utilize that space for storage? Nothing I’ve seen in any of the apparation material explains exactly what’s going on, just how to do it, and even that depends a great deal on belief.”

Tom nodded thoughtfully. “That, my friend, is a very interesting question. And the two things may be related.”

“It would be amazingly helpful if we could have storage options, like pouches or whatever, that were a gateway to a section of fold-space. We wouldn’t have to worry about volume or weight. We could carry anything, so to speak. Or even rings. Imagine a ring you could wear that looks like simple jewelry, nothing special. But when you took it off you could expand it, and reach through it, and pull out whatever you needed.”

A slow smile graced Tom’s face. “There are days when you truly amaze me, Joshua. We’re going to have an interesting year, between this research and the NEWTs.”

“Well, the idea of a ring occurred to me due to several things. First, it’s innocuous. Second, it could be resized fairly easily, and only function as a . . . gateway . . . when expanded. Third, even if people were to scan it for magic, they may only see what they think is a simple resizing charm.”

Tom’s smile widened. “We definitely have much to work on.”

Joshua was slightly annoyed to realize that he was hampered in their experiments by not yet having attained his seventeenth birthday, but he did well enough otherwise. They had spent years working magic without a wand, after all, and what they were attempting had no real correlating spells.

A minor breakthrough was achieved one sunny day in early August when Tom made an illegal portkey and managed to slow the trip down through sheer force of will, long enough for the both of them to have a look around at what they were traveling through. The only comparison Joshua could make was like being in outer space, except that it wasn’t inhospitably cold and they could breathe.

Careful study of their memories after the fact revealed that it was a nearly featureless plain of existence, the endless twilight broken by vague ghostly shapes corresponding to what was present in the real world. Tom looked exceptionally thoughtful, and when he spoke it was slowly done. “In theory, we could link a ring to the representation of something that already exists, such as a trunk, for example.”

“Er, but trunks can be moved,” he pointed out.

“True, but it is already something which is designed to hold things. I wonder if doing it that way would reinforce the magic . . . sympathetically. Also, even though something like a storage room would not move, it could still be destroyed, so in that sense it would not necessarily be a better choice.”

“Hm.” Joshua looked out over the landscape, not really seeing any of it. “What about an underground cave, then? If it were reinforced, I mean, and preferably one with only a single entrance. That would give us a physical basis for our dead-space copy. If we had to we could magically carve one out of rock and seal the entrance afterward.”

Tom made an indistinct sound and shifted, then said, “We would have to pervert the magic involved with travel, warp it. It might be easier to work with portkeys as they already employ a physical component. We also need to decide what to make the rings out of. Something light but sturdy, I think, so that when they’re shrunk down to ring size they will not be too heavy to wear.”

He tore his gaze away from nothingness and looked directly at his friend. “This is because expanding them from a normal ring would thin the material too much and open up the possibility of easy breakage.”

“Correct.” Tom flashed him a small smile.

“Well, we’re never going to find a diamond large enough, so I guess we’ve just become metallurgy students?”

Their experiments for the remainder of the summer involved using cheap metals, however, and those rings were not shrunk at all. Given that they had a rough plan of action the two of them found a seemingly abandoned cottage and made careful note of their surroundings. A delay comprised of Joshua getting his apparation license took them only a few hours and they had shortly returned. Though, they also stocked up on food supplies after a run-in with some of London’s seedier residents, who were induced to hand over any money they had. Joshua was well pleased to be able to apparate on his own finally, even if the sensations involved were nearly as unpleasant as being taken side-along; being the one in control did make a difference.

The cottage was very run down and barely useful when it came to avoiding the elements, but the attraction was that it appeared unlikely they would be interrupted, and it sported a stone bin with a decaying wooden lid, which they intended to use for their initial tests. The iron from an old cart wheel served as their preliminary ring. The portkey magic had to be twisted to accomplish the porting of only inanimate objects rather than beings, and to make the target location stop just short of the physical world, within the metaphysical, and allow for the ring to serve as both entrance and exit.

It could not be said that they were brilliant enough to manage their goal so quickly, though they did make progress. Tom reluctantly joined Joshua in packing up the evening of the thirty-first, then joined him on their shared bedroll to look up at the stars.

“Being Head Boy this year should be useful,” Joshua idly commented.

“It would be even more useful if it came with a room to myself,” Tom responded. “Not, of course, that I would deny you free access. Still, this appointment shows that the staff does not think ill of me, Dumbledore excepted.”

“He might not have openly objected. He probably just pushed for a different candidate. After all, people might begin to wonder why he seemed to have it in for you, and start questioning him. I can’t imagine he could come up with anything solid. It’s not like you ever get in trouble.”

Tom snorted softly. “Dumbledore’s opinion of me seems to be based solely on just how sullen I seemed to be when I first met him, and then because I was sorted into Slytherin.”

Joshua rolled onto his side and briefly touched Tom’s arm. “Sullen because I disappeared?”

“Mm. That was most of it. But I wouldn’t doubt that he nosed around to see what the others thought of me. He seems to have precious little regard when it comes to personal privacy.”

“Well, what about after our NEWTs?” he asked, rolling onto his back again.

“There are some things I wish to track down, but overall, I plan to become a power in this world. I’m already off to a good start.”

Joshua shivered involuntarily, thinking of Voldemort and how he seemed in some respects no better than Grindelwald. How had it all gone so wrong?

“Are you cold?” Tom inquired.

He winced internally; he could not lie to his friend. “No, just thinking about something.” And before Tom could ask he added, “One of those things I can’t seem to talk about. I really dislike the distance it puts between us. I should be able to tell you anything, though I guess I understand in this instance why I can’t.”

Tom was silent for a long time before finally saying, “Let’s get some sleep.”

* * *

He was sitting in front of the fire in the Slytherin common room, glad, for the time being, to be alone with a book. Everyone else had long since gone to bed, for which he was grateful. However, the book was no distraction from his wandering thoughts, which kept returning to the Slug Club meeting held earlier that Halloween evening. The date alone made him uneasy, not something he could control, but the meeting was also a cause for the same. Slughorn had spent the night chatting amiably with all of his hand-picked invitees, flattering and even subtly flirting with them. He was like a bloated spider placing silk-wrapped bodies at advantageous spots on his web, to be later returned to for feeding.

It made him want to snarl whenever Slughorn honed in on Tom. For himself he simply bore it, getting the impression that Slughorn was not quite sure what use Joshua could be to him in the future. Even worse were the other students who did the same to Tom, eyes alight with something which caused him agitation, and even . . . jealousy. That surprised him. Was he concerned that someone else could rise to his unique position in Tom’s eyes, that someone would somehow manage to steal away his friend’s time? Or was he afraid that it would be even more upsetting, with someone managing to gain Tom’s love? He shook his head and sighed, then nearly squeaked when someone sat next to him. A sidelong look revealed it to be Tom, whose eyes fairly glittered in the flickering light from the fire.

“What are you reading?”

He shook his head again. “I’m not even sure at this point,” he replied, snapping the book shut and setting it aside.

“You are distracted and distressed,” Tom accused. “You did not even notice I was approaching you. Does this have something to do with the things you cannot speak of?”

He raised his brows in surprise. “No, not at all. I was thinking about the meeting,” he said with a shrug. “I can’t say that I . . . appreciate . . . the way people act during them.”

Tom arched a brow. “They do have their uses.”

“I realize that.”

“You’re not appreciative of the fawning masses?” Tom inquired lazily.

“I’m not appreciative of the way they look at you,” he snapped, then looked away, feeling a sense of mild horror at his admission.

Tom shifted closer and leaned back, a thick silence falling between them. A minute later an arm snaked around his shoulders and pulled Joshua closer. “You are my only,” Tom said softly.

“Your only what? Brother?”

“No,” was the sharp reply. “Do you think I am pleased when others try to gain your attention, casting such looks at you?”

“What looks?” He frowned and angled his head toward Tom, who snorted.

“Such innocence. You recognize it, yet you don’t.” Tom pulled his arm away and angled his body to face him. “Would you recognize it if one of them did this?” he asked, then grasped Joshua’s chin with one hand and leaned in to kiss him.

He hissed as he was released, his mind an incoherent mess. He calmed quickly, far too used to bizarre situations to be out of it for too long. Tom certainly did not need to know how fast his heart was beating. “Interesting demonstration,” he said dryly. “Will there be more of those in the future?”

“Oh, that depends on you,” Tom said, a little too casually.

Joshua studied his friend intently, finally saying, “That was my first kiss, you know. I wonder from whom my next shall come.”

Tom growled and lurched forward, reaching out to grasp Joshua’s chin again. “It had better be from me. All of them.”

He smiled a bit shyly before he caught himself and smirked instead. Maybe this explained all those frigid looks Tom kept giving certain people. “And why is that?”

Tom released him with a stilted laugh. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he reluctantly admitted.

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

Tom looked at him, really looked at him, and gave him one of those small smiles. “It’s late.”

* * *

Tuesdays suddenly became the day each week when they would steal away from everyone. Rather, evening. Joshua knew after a time that their circle of ‘friends’ had come to the conclusion that they were plotting. Instead, they were exploring this new direction in their relationship, at once tentative and forceful. Neither of them really understood it, as neither of them had much in the way of example to work from.

Tom’s kisses were heady, his hands one moment dexterous, another ambisinistrous, his lips sure and hesitant, his manner spontaneous and calculated. Joshua found it exhilarating and terrifying. How much of this could be with each Horcrux Tom made? How much of it was curiosity and possessiveness, and how much of it was genuine attachment on a basis deeper than friendship? It was too late, anyway. He knew that if another kind of love existed he had already fallen into it.

Oh, not mere lust. He saw with carefully watchful eyes how those around him comported themselves. They saw it as a fulfillment of base needs, or even as a game. Few had the light in their eyes of genuine caring. Then again, knowing what he did of pure-bloods and their customs, that only made sense. They came together for alliances, to increase wealth and power. The smart ones married outside their circles, to pure-bloods from other countries. Very few managed to find that elusive thing called love.

It was nearing Christmas when he brought himself to whisper, “Will this ruin things between us, if it doesn’t work out?”

Tom gave him one of those focused looks, the ones that seemed to look straight into his soul. “Maybe so, but are you not willing to risk it considering it might become more than either of us can presently imagine?” Tom countered. “Whom else do I trust? Whom else do you trust? We are too powerful to not realize that most everyone around us looks at us with eyes hungry to share in that power, with little real care for either of us. Some would even seek to use us, to steal it from us, then discard us like broken toys.”

“I understand that. But I’m talking about feelings, not . . . simple lust. Not some pure-blood-style agreement between us.” _Will you still care about me if you keep splitting your soul?_

“What happens happens, Joshua.”

“That’s an awfully fatalistic way of looking at things.”

“Risk is risky.” Tom forced an end to the conversation by kissing him like he meant it.

When break actually rolled around they were nearly alone in Slytherin, certainly among the upper years. It gave them more freedom, though they remained cautious and careful. One never knew. And when Christmas arrived they opened their gifts in their dorm room. Neither of them purchased anything for others, but that did not stop others from doing so for them.

Joshua was amused when Tom produced a small package from somewhere in his clothing and handed it over. Opening it revealed a ring etched with numerous miniscule runes. “Is this . . . what I think it is?”

“A working prototype, yes,” Tom said a bit smugly. “It’s set to that stone bin.”

“And what, if anything, have you placed inside?”

“Well, I admit I was curious about the effects, so I sent through several apples.”

Joshua wrinkled his nose slightly, wondering. “How long ago?”

“A week. They were fresh at the time, and there were no spells placed on them.”

He nodded and focused his will, touching the rune meant to enlarge the ring, followed shortly by saying, “ _Evoco_ apple.” An apple appeared within the enlarged ring, then fell straight down, onto his lap. Joshua set the ring aside after reducing it with another tap to a rune, then picked up the apple and examined it. A quick flick of his left wrist brought a knife to his hand, which he used to cut the apple in half. It appeared to be still fresh. “It might be interesting to see what one looks like in another week, or a month.”

“I agree,” Tom said, his expression one of satisfaction. “Time may have no real meaning there, or it may just pass at a different rate. Certainly something we should be aware of prior to putting something like potions in a storage spot.”

“What about an inventory?”

At the question Tom’s expression turned smug and he grabbed the ring and expanded it before pointing to a particular rune. A moment later he looked slightly discomfited. “It does need a little more work, but it functions.”

Joshua discounted that flaw entirely. “This is brilliant! I had no idea you were being such a sneaky bastard and had gotten so close without me catching on, even with us still discussing the project,” he said admiringly, and was pleased to see Tom’s expression shift back toward smugness. “We’ll just have to make it perfect. I know we can do it.”

“Yes. Yes we can,” Tom said confidently.

After that they continued to spend their spare time (not Tuesdays) working on the project, slowly refining it until the point where they felt they could create one for real.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 06-07 April 2010
> 
> Non-explicit sex included. (An amusing anecdote for this chapter is when Batsutousai found that I had written Word War II, rather than World War II, and commented, “I am rather amused by the idea that Hitler was merely having a war of words, but I figured that's not what you meant. XD”)

The school year was in twilight when Tom returned to the dorm one evening with a pleased smirk on his face. “ _I have tracked down the location of one of Ravenclaw’s relics, a diadem purported to impart great wisdom when worn._ ”

“ _From?_ ”

“ _As it turns out the Grey Lady is actually Helena Ravenclaw, Rowena’s only daughter. She coveted the diadem, yet Rowena would not give her it, so she stole it and fled to Albania. I will find it. I will have it,_ ” he promised.

Joshua simply nodded. He had yet to see (with the exception of his own lack of death) Tom fail at anything he set his mind to.

“ _I have also discovered a very interesting secret about the castle. Rowena left behind other examples of her brilliance, namely a place referred to as the Room of Requirement. It is located on the seventh floor, and can be anything you desire, whatever your requirements are._ ”

His eyes widened at the possibilities inherent, and his mind drifted to imagining something which made him blush, then harder when Tom chuckled lowly at him. “Shut up.”

“ _The room is always there, just not accessible unless called for. Shall we?_ ”

Opposite a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy (recognizable only because he was trying to teach trolls to dance ballet) was a blank stretch of wall, which caused him to arch a brow at Tom, who leaned in very close and whispered, “ _A person walks past that blank wall thrice, concentrating hard on what is needed. And, depending on the requirements, it is possible for the wall to again be blank once inside._ ”

There were no portraits along that stretch, nor suits of armor, nor any spells discernible which might spy, so Tom went ahead and caused a door to the room to appear, which they entered quickly.

“That’s an awfully large bed,” he commented.

Tom leered at him.

“I can think of one problem, though.”

“Oh?”

“What if someone happens to be walking along the corridor when we wish to exit? We’ll need to check first, perhaps require a one-way window or something?”

“Excellent point. Now, step outside and I shall close the door behind you. Thirty seconds later I will open it again. When you return you can verify if the door was missing from that side.”

Joshua nodded and quit the room, indeed seeing that there was no door visible, and entered once more when Tom revealed it to him. “Confirmed.”

“Good. Let us now try to call the room into being again, this time with the window you mentioned.”

Less than a minute later he watched as Tom disappeared inside and the door vanished, and shortly after that he was being invited within again.

“The window works.”

“And I could see neither it nor the door,” he verified.

Tom smiled and looked around the room, then focused on him. “Offhand I can think of one more test we can do. If the room is called, yet only the person calling it knows the requirements, is another able to cause the door to appear by requiring something, and would that alter the requirements existing for the one already inside?”

Joshua heaved a sigh, but refrained from otherwise commenting. He knew that Tom was simply trying to negate the possibility that they could be discovered while making use of the room. By the time Tom was satisfied Joshua was heartily tired of the whole thing, though pleased that they now had what seemed like a sanctuary. Even if others were aware of the place, they could not be disturbed without a great deal of effort.

It was just a shame Tom had not discovered it earlier, as it was so much easier to get to than the Chamber of Secrets. And despite being on the same floor as the Gryffindors, it was well enough away from their location and out of the general flow of traffic as to be almost ideal. If nothing else Joshua could use it himself later on—that is, assuming he was forced back to his proper time, and assuming that he returned to whence he had left, and that same time frame.

Tom, however, was energized from their experiments and turned to him with gleaming eyes that made Joshua involuntarily shiver. He was advanced upon, his hands captured, then drawn toward the bed (the only feature which had remained constant in the several experimental permutations). He shivered again as Tom began to slowly undress him, this time removing all of his clothing, and then shed his own, followed by the both of them lying on the bed.

He opened his mouth to speak, but realized he could not formulate a proper sentence, so instead leaned in to kiss Tom. He trusted Tom, so whatever happened happened. At least in this place he could relax, and it did not hurt that Tom was taking his time, languidly exploring his mouth, with his hands moving soothingly over Joshua’s bare flesh. He knew, should Tom wish it, they would culminate the current stage of their relationship, something which could only be followed by mutual expression of love, even if unspoken.

It hurt when it happened, despite Tom’s tender care and gentle words, but as time progressed and movements slow allowed him to adjust, he was able to feel the stirrings of pleasure. Thus, he encouraged his lover and was soon lost to the sensations engendered, riding them like cresting waves to a blissful explosion.

* * *

An amazing thing happened in late April. Professor Dumbledore had, during a short stint away from the school over a weekend, dueled and defeated Dark Lord Grindelwald, who was then sentenced to Nurmengard for life. The school was in an uproar, much like the rest of magical Britain, and over on the mainland, and students and staff alike wished they could again see their Transfiguration professor on a daily basis. Unfortunately for them he was taking a short sabbatical to deal with the aftermath, while a procurator supplied by the ministry was overseeing his classes.

Dumbledore had barely returned when World War II ended, though for the majority of students that held little meaning. For people such as Joshua and Tom it meant quite a lot, even though they had no intention of living in muggle London. Even so, it continued to defy reason that their classmates had not been more concerned about the bombings given that Diagon Alley could have been reduced to rubble with one lucky air strike.

Joshua had witnessed more than once the difficulties faced by a muggle-born or lesser half-blood when they tried to explain their concerns to pure-bloods and greater half-bloods; their words rolled off their backs as it was “just a muggle problem” and had nothing to do with them. They continually refused to see the dangers the muggles presented, as though ignorance and willful denial were exemplary virtues.

These things were soon enough pushed to the background, though not forgotten, as exams loomed. The library was haven to many a student (though Joshua and Tom did their revision in the Room of Requirement, as they could discuss things without whispering and practice, and it was able to supply any text necessary) and practically lived in by the seventh years during the final week prior to the NEWT examinations, when their classes were suspended in favor of pure revision, with the professors holding those classes as a time for students to seek help on specific things.

The very night of their final exam, Joshua disappeared from his bed. Tom did not witness it as he was asleep already, as were their roommates.

This time he arrived far more easily, and in time to hear, “That was—!”

A second later a curse was being thrown his way, which he dodged without thinking, rolling to his feet and taking precious moments to assess the situation.

“Stop!” yelled a commanding voice.

He and Voldemort looked toward the sound; Joshua sighed with relief on seeing Tom.

“ _What_ are you doing?” demanded Tom of Voldemort. “How _dare_ you attack him!”

Voldemort’s expression morphed to that of wide-eyed shock, causing Joshua to start laughing helplessly.

“I—” Voldemort slowly turned his head toward Joshua, eyes going even wider. “Joshua?”

He nodded, a bit too breathless to speak, then spun around at the sound of whimpering; Pettigrew was standing right there. A stunner quickly disabled him before Joshua turned back to Voldemort and Tom.

“He needs to be dealt with,” Tom said firmly. “And you—what the _hell_ happened to us since you created the diary?”

Voldemort sat down rather ungracefully, cradling his chin in one hand, looking completely lost.

Tom moved closer to himself and frowned. After a quick look at Joshua he said, “We are one, but we are obviously not the same. We shall see what becomes of us in just a moment.” With that he pressed forward, twisting as he moved, and settled himself into Voldemort.

Joshua watched with wonder as Voldemort rapidly became younger, until he resembled a man in his early thirties. Even so the man’s features retained that alien snake-like taint, with waxy skin and bloodshot eyes. He approached, albeit hesitantly, reaching out his left hand, yet diffident about actually touching him. “Tom?” he said softly. Seconds later he clutched his head in pain; it was like something was being forced into his mind, a psychic drill right behind his eyes. And despite his watering eyes he could see that Voldemort was experiencing something similar.

As the pain finally ebbed Voldemort slowly rose to his feet and faced him, his brow crinkled. “Joshua,” he said simply.

“Yes.”

“When . . . did you leave this time?” was asked of him stiltedly.

He tilted his head in confusion. “After the last NEWT exam. You were already asleep.”

“But you were there in the morning.”

Joshua took a half step back, having heard the words twice, one an echo of the other, a heartbeat out of sync. “I was?”

“You were. You disappeared much later. I thought—no, what I thought is not what’s important right now.” Voldemort came closer, his left hand reaching out to touch the side of Joshua’s face. As quickly as it happened he stepped back. “We don’t have time for this. Quickly, you must correct your appearance.”

Joshua complied without really comprehending, morphing back to his nearly-fifteen year old self as Harry Potter, then cringed when Voldemort snarled at him.

“I . . . apologize,” Voldemort said stiffly. ‘I cannot believe it is really you. All this time, I was trying to kill my. . . .’

“I—am I hearing your thoughts?”

‘My thoughts?’

Joshua concentrated. ‘Thoughts, Tom. And that pain? Was it. . . ?’

A wondrous thing occurred then—Voldemort smiled at him.

“I guess so. Er, what do we do now? My brain doesn’t seem to be working quite right.”

“You return to the school. Let them know that Lord Voldemort has returned. See who believes? Dumbledore surely will, but others I suspect will retreat into denial. We will have to make this believable, though.”

Joshua grimaced; he knew what that meant. “All right. The cup?”

Voldemort shrugged one shoulder. “Barty made a mistake, obviously.” The cup was summoned and examined, then Voldemort dropped it and tapped it with his wand. “When you grasp it again you’ll be returned to the school.”

“Fine, but I need to be able to reach you if this connection does not extend over distances.”

Voldemort countered with, “Where are you during the summers?”

Joshua hesitated for a split second, then said firmly, “№ 4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey. There’s wards, of course, supposedly blood wards according to a letter Dumbledore left with my aunt. Though, thinking about it, I have to wonder if they’re even of any use now since you used my blood. There’s a park not far off, too. I don’t actually know if the blood wards are it, or if there’s more in the neighborhood. I suspect there are definitely more, since I get next to no post.” He narrowed his eyes and began thinking decidedly nasty thoughts about Dumbledore.

Voldemort shot him a knowing look. “I will investigate. If we cannot communicate at any distance I will get as close as I can in the hopes it will be close enough. For now, however, we should not dally any longer. You were brought here, used in the ritual, and we fought, but you managed to get back to the cup, which was mistakenly made two-way. Which reminds me, Mad-Eye Moody is really one of my Death Eaters, Barty Crouch Jr, using polyjuice potion. I have no doubt that when you return he will try to lead you away and kill you on my behalf. Do not let him do so. If he is exposed as a fake I can afford to lose him, though I would prefer not to. After all, they will not be looking for someone who is supposed to be dead.” He paused before saying, “Are you prepared?”

Joshua took a deep breath, fixed his clothing, and nodded, fighting against the reflex action of defending himself. Voldemort sent curses at him intended to be glancing blows, but that did not make them hurt any less. The only reason he could bear it was because it was his lover and he trusted him. When Voldemort nodded he half fell over due to a particularly nasty leg wound and wrapped his fingers around one of the handles, closing his eyes as he was whisked away.

He landed heavily back at the center of the maze. Krum was no longer there, so someone must have become aware of his difficulties and removed him. Completely alone and bleeding, he decided that rather than trying to puzzle his way back out he would simply send up sparks with his wand, and did so.

Officials were there quickly and he was transported back outside the maze, the cup dangling from one hand, his wand from the other. He was then set down and someone came to crouch beside him: Dumbledore.

“He’s back,” Joshua whispered, turning a frightened look on the headmaster. “H-he’s back. Voldemort.”

“What’s going on?” demanded a familiar voice: Minister Fudge. “What’s happened?”

He did not bother to look that way; instead he looked down. Those watching would see him gaze as though fascinated at the jagged wound on his arm, or perhaps the blood staining the leg of his trousers. Shock, they would assume.

Dumbledore, with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, raised Joshua from the ground and set him on his feet. Joshua swayed. His head was pounding and his injured leg would no longer properly support his weight. The crowd around them jostled, fighting to get closer, pressing darkly in on him.

“What’s happened?” someone asked.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked another.

“He’ll need to go to the hospital wing,” Fudge said loudly, overriding the other voices. “He’s ill. He’s injured.”

Joshua held back a snort over the minister stating the obvious in the midst of a crowd of people who could clearly see for themselves he was hardly well.

“I’ll take Harry, Dumbledore, I’ll take him—”

“No, I would prefer—”

Some of the girls had begun sobbing for some reason. Joshua was pretty darn sure he was not dead, nor was he in any danger of dying, so what was wrong with them? Then he realized that he was again, for the time being at least, back to being some kind of hero, and they were indulging in hysterics due to his injuries.

“Harry, stay here—” Dumbledore broke away to fend off the multitude of people pushing to be the one to help Joshua.

“It’s all right, son, I’ve got you,” Moody said quietly. “Come on, we’ll go to the hospital wing.”

“Dumbledore said stay,” he replied.

“You need to lie down and be looked at,” Moody persisted. “Come on now.”

Joshua allowed himself to be coaxed away, but waited very little time before acting. He pretended his leg had buckled and crashed into Moody, knocking both of them to the ground. And during the deliberate cock-up he wandlessly knocked the man out, then rolled over onto his side so he could sit up and wait. Right at the moment Dumbledore was the lesser of two evils. If Moody—Crouch Jr—was to survive, he would have to get himself out of this mess.

Sure enough, Dumbledore appeared a minute later and asked what happened, then revived Moody and helped Joshua back to his feet. By then Fudge had arrived. Moody was weak enough to let a split second look of angry frustration to cross his face, but Joshua was the only one to notice the lapse. Even so, the expression on Dumbledore’s face was one of consternation, and his eyes flickered toward Moody more than once. By the time they reached the entrance hall Moody had disappeared. Dumbledore muttered something too low for him to discern.

From there he was escorted to the infirmary. By the time they arrived he was shaking. Reaction from the trip through time, from having allowed his lover to cast against him and not defend, from thwarting a murderous Death Eater, from. . . . He realized he was surprised that Dumbledore hadn’t diverted to his office; perhaps not, due to Fudge being there, dogging their steps. They passed by a number of inquisitive people who must have taken a different route and probably run the entire way; they were ignored.

Madam Pomfrey immediately took charge and got him to a bed as Dumbledore shepherded the minister away, speaking to him quietly. Screens were erected to give him some privacy, though at the moment no one else was around, and a set of pajamas was placed on a side table. “I’ll be right back, Mr Potter. Go ahead and get undressed so I can heal those wounds when I return.”

He did so with minor difficulty, his arm and leg not inclined to be cooperative, after he dropped the cup and his wand on the table. He sat there wondering just how he was going to sell a believable version of the events to Dumbledore, how long before he returned, and what effect it would have on the old man. His Occlumency barriers were, he hoped, sound. Pomfrey bustled back carrying a bottle filled with a purple potion and a goblet, both of which found space on the table, and then she began tutting over his wounds and healing him, the blood being vanished first each time.

Joshua continued to ponder, coming to the conclusion that he could be mostly truthful, altering the second half of the graveyard encounter to match the very hasty plan Voldemort had come up with. In truth he barely remembered what had happened after his scar had exploded in pain. He was startled when he suddenly heard Voldemort in his head, but luckily Pomfrey passed it off as a reaction to a nasty cut she was dealing with.

‘The cage of light collapsed as soon as you did. So, instead, you managed to break the connection between the wands, and as you were attempting to escape—a desperate gambit on your part—you were further wounded. Your leg was the final injury, causing you to coincidentally latch onto the cup, which brought you back to the maze.’

He nearly smiled, not only because he could hear his lover, but because he was handed a ready explanation.

‘I will assist you in placing that version of events in your public mind. As it is not entirely an altered memory Dumbledore should not notice anything amiss should he try to spy. Even so, it is very nearly the truth, and you can always avoid his eyes, assuming you can do so without making him suspicious. You did, after all, fall over due to your leg. The major difference is you were not actually trying to escape, and you deliberately took the handle.’

‘Thank you, Tom. Your assistance is certainly appreciated.’

The scene began playing at the forefront of his mind, the first minor alteration being that his scar was no longer the cause of his pain. Instead the cruciatus curse was, used as a way to get his attention. It remained true that he was unable to process what Voldemort was saying. After that it followed true memory until the collapse of the cage of light, where memory changed to him wrenching free, lurching away, and his leg buckling beneath him just as he reached the cup.

The revised series of events had played out numerous times in his head when a hand on his shoulder began shaking him.

“Only a few minutes, headmaster,” Pomfrey’s voice cut in. “He’s in a mild state of shock and he needs his rest. I’ll be just over there, keeping an eye on you.”

“Harry, I would greatly like to know what happened once you reached the center of the maze.”

Since when was he Harry to the headmaster? Had they become acquainted during a moment of inattention on his part? An attempt, after a glance out of the corner of his eye, at playing grandfather figure and concerned headmaster? Dumbledore _should_ be concerned. Joshua opened his mouth, paused for several seconds, then said, “When I got there Krum was laid out. I took the cup since no one else had. As soon as my fingers closed around the handle I was jerked off my feet, like someone had attached a rope to my stomach from the inside.” He paused again. “I ended up in a graveyard. A man I’d never seen before stunned me before I could get my bearings. I was tied to a headstone, a statue? There was a cauldron and the man started muttering to himself. He dropped a bundle into it, muttering.” Another longish pause.

“He dropped in something, yellowish-grey, muttering. He cut off his right hand into the cauldron, muttering. He came to me and used a knife on my arm, dripping the blood in, muttering. Mist and fog, from it stepped a man. Voldemort was back.” From there he continued his recitation, his tone just as detached and his speech pattern just as unnatural. Dumbledore seemed to accept, for he went away soon after he stopped speaking, allowing Joshua to relax slightly.

Pomfrey appeared again, this time to pour a bit of the purple liquid into the goblet and hand it to him. “You’ll need to drink all of this. It’s a potion for dreamless sleep.”

He took the goblet and made as if to drink, even swallowing to mimic his falsehood, wandlessly vanishing a mouthful at a time before it ever reached his lips, then handed the goblet back and laid down, relaxing slowly into a mockery of sleep. Pomfrey’s footsteps informed him of her departure, so Joshua returned his attention to Voldemort, who he could sense was speaking to someone.

‘I have called my Death Eaters to me, to inform them of my return, and to punish them for not having come to find me during my exile. Wormtail has at least paid part of his debt.’

‘Anyone I know?’

Joshua could suddenly see despite his eyes being closed. Before him was the graveyard again, a ring of men arrayed out in front of him. There were three men whose faces brought to mind the names Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, being so similar to students at the school. The others he was not familiar with, but Voldemort supplied names to go with every face. ‘A number are imprisoned in Azkaban, and I shall see to getting them released. Karkaroff is missing, as is Snape.’

‘Snape? I actually thought those were just rumors because he’s such a bastard.’

‘He is one of mine,’ Voldemort confirmed. ‘I will explain in more detail once we are able to meet up. Joshua, you need to understand something. Yes, you are seventeen, nearly eighteen, and the Trace has long since been removed from you, but if you perform magic with your wand once you are back at your place of residence the ministry will assume it is you and act accordingly. I suspect they keep a keen watch on that area.’

He scowled in response.

‘Even if it was still on you, casting in magical areas or households would result in the ministry being unable to pinpoint who actually did so. Stick to wandless, which has no recognizable signature.’

‘I will do so,’ he promised. It was nothing more than he had already been doing, and he knew he would not get in trouble for its use.

‘I must finish up with my men. Get some rest and we will talk later. There is much I must inform you of.’

Joshua could feel Voldemort slipping away from him as the words faded, and he relaxed enough to fall asleep. The next morning he awoke to the sounds of Pomfrey bustling around him, though loud voices were coming from somewhere nearby. As they became louder and the sources came closer he could tell that it was Dumbledore and Fudge, arguing over the events of the previous night. Fudge was denying that there was any chance Voldemort had returned, just as his lover had predicted, while Dumbledore attempted to convince him.

The infirmary doors burst open and the two men entered, with Fudge marching up to him with a sack in one hand. It was practically slammed onto the bedside table. “Your winnings, Mr Potter. Now what is this nonsense about Voldemort returning? You were clearly in a state of shock due to your injuries and hallucinated the entire episode. Am I not correct?”

“Cornelius, this is clearly not the time to—”

“It is _exactly_ the time,” Fudge cut in sharply. “What happened, Mr Potter? Tell me now.”

Joshua let his eyes glaze over and his gaze drift to one of the walls. “I only know what I saw,” he said, then recited the story again.

“The child was obviously hit with a confundus charm,” Fudge declared. “You are a fool to think otherwise, Albus. It’s someone’s idea of a sick joke, played on Mr Potter, probably the same people who stirred up trouble at the Quidditch World Cup. We should feel lucky that’s all it was, and he was not irreversibly harmed or even killed. I won’t hear any more of this!” Fudge did an about-face and stormed off.

In the periphery of his vision Joshua could see the deeply disappointed look Dumbledore cast his way. The man sighed heavily and shook his head, then left as well.

A few minutes later Pomfrey declared him well enough to leave and added, “Breakfast will be starting shortly. I had a set of your clothes delivered, so you’re good to go. But, come back to see me if you feel odd.”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey. I will.”

* * *

He was instructed, the night before the students were to leave, to access the Room of Requirement, taking all possible precautions to avoid being seen or tracked. Voldemort wished him to retrieve a diadem, which he did. The moment his hand touched the metal he was suffused with the feeling of his lover, though it felt tainted, and he realized the object was a Horcrux. He tucked it away in a pocket and sneaked back to the dorm.

The train ride home was strange. He was so used to having Tom next to him, and his absence was like an ache. Even the presence of Voldemort in his mind did not entirely dispel his sense of loss. ‘We will be together again soon.’

‘Yes. It must be far more strange for you, having been separated from me for so long. I don’t want this feeling to stop, because it would mean I was accustomed to it.’

Poignant unhappiness flooded him briefly. ‘It never goes away.’

It seemed like the proper thing to be masochistic about. Draco showed up then, but left quickly, seemingly a bit unnerved by Joshua’s stubborn silence, even in the face of Dumbledore having informed the entire student body at the leaving feast that Voldemort had returned. At Kings Cross he made a quick side trip into a public restroom, guided by Voldemort, and met his lover long enough to transfer the diadem to him in one of the stalls. When he did finally reach № 4 and had dropped off his things he made straight for the park, knowing who awaited him.

‘You’re being followed,’ he was informed. ‘Head for the trees and have a seat. I will have to remain out of sight, unfortunately.’

He did so, using one of the straggly trees as a backrest, and affixed his gaze on the uneven horizon. ‘Let me guess. Dumbledore is responsible.’

‘I would assume so. The blood wards you mentioned do not exist. They either collapsed due to the ritual, or because of your true age. Other wards are in place, but they are nothing in comparison to what a set of properly emplaced and strengthened blood wards can do. I must assume that Dumbledore is aware of this and has sent people to see to your safety.’

‘How kind of him,’ Joshua responded dryly. ‘Now I must be especially careful in everything I do.’

‘You were correct in the assumption regarding your post. There is a ward emplaced to redirect most owls.’

He gave the equivalent of a mental shrug. ‘Getting back to my departure. I distinctly recall being whisked away on the night of our final exam. Given what you said I can only assume that I will return for a third and final time. Will you tell me what I’ve missed?’

There was a long pause first. ‘I will not speak of the time up until your final departure. You will experience it for yourself.’

Joshua scowled, then whipped his head around toward the sound of rustling leaves. His watcher could not be all _that_ good if they gave theirself away so easily. He let his gaze drift back to the uneven horizon.

‘After you disappeared I searched for you with every possible method to hand. It was similar to when you vanished the first time, except I was much wiser and skilled. Even so, nothing worked. If you did somehow return again I was not aware of it. In any case. . . . I actually went so far as to speak with Dippet, requesting the position of professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts. I thought, if you returned, it may well be to the school. He turned me down, saying I was too young and needed to experience the world first.

‘I worked for Borgin & Burkes’—Joshua could sense that something was being left out—‘helping to persuade people to sell their treasures. I was fortunate enough to run across information that Borgin & Burkes had once held possession of my mother’s locket. She had sold it to them for a pittance of ten galleons. A woman named Hepzibah Smith purchased it later, so I arranged to meet with her to discuss her valuable collection.

‘During that visit I made my third Horcrux, a cup which had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. I altered the memories of her house-elf to account for Smith’s death, and left with possession of the cup and my mother’s locket.’

Joshua was decidedly unhappy at this evidence of the degradation of his lover’s mind, but kept it to himself for the time being. His absence from Tom’s life had obviously been extremely detrimental if the man had killed people merely to further a scheme of dubious value. He only hoped his lover could be helped so far removed from that time.

‘I left England then, to wander, to search, to continue to learn. The locket was made into a Horcrux with the death of a muggle tramp. I remembered then about what the Grey Lady had revealed to me, so I traveled to Albania and located the diadem of Ravenclaw. A peasant was unfortunate enough to be in the area. . . . That brought me to a six-part soul, one short of my goal. I admit, you were not there to convince me otherwise. You were not there to remind me of our code.’

After a long silence Voldemort continued. ‘I became distracted at that point, realizing I did not have another artifact which pleased me, so I continued to wander, eventually returning to Britain with the idea of trying, again, to secure a position at Hogwarts. Perhaps there I could find something belonging to Gryffindor, and my collection would be complete. Dumbledore was headmaster by then and did not trust me still, and he refused.

‘Enraged, I managed to get to the Room of Requirement with the diadem, and used spells to curse the Defense position. Anyone who was hired would last but a year; something would always happen to force them away. Unfortunately, I did not have the leisure to search as I wished for another artifact, and had to leave before Dumbledore caught on and came after me. I traveled again for a decade, then returned to Britain and began gathering followers. Our . . . friends . . . from school were up for it, and they began grooming their children for the same. . . .’

Joshua sighed. ‘You went crazy,’ he stated flatly. ‘I can imagine how this goes based on the books I’ve read. You recruited people, used the imperius curse against innocents and forced them to commit endless atrocities, swayed the giants to your cause, and they tortured and killed many. Yet you always avoided Dumbledore.’

‘Yes,’ Voldemort responded softly, but his mental voice changed as he spoke further, becoming a bit crazed. ‘I had reason, Joshua! There was every reason to strike out at those who saw Dumbledore as akin to a saint! They needed to die!’


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 07-08 April 2010
> 
> More history. As usual, the Harry Potter Lexicon is an absolute goldmine. Maybe it’s a mistake to include it the way I’ve done, but whatever.

‘Hold on, hold on,’ he replied quickly and firmly. ‘Explain this to me, Tom, calmly if you please. What did Dumbledore do? We have never liked nor trusted him, but something must have set you off.’

A feeling of fear washed over him before Voldemort spoke again. ‘During my travels I became curious about Dumbledore’s defeat of Grindelwald. Knowing the man was locked away in the very prison he had constructed to hold his own political enemies, I went to Nurmengard and broke in, seeking out Grindelwald in the topmost cell of the tower. He was in no condition to resist me. I interrogated him.’

Voldemort went silent again, fear leaking through along with hints of blazing anger. Joshua finally prompted a continuation with, ‘And?’

‘Grindelwald and Dumbledore used to be friends, back when they were young. Gellert was expelled from Durmstrang at age sixteen, and choose to go abroad to investigate the legend of the Deathly Hallows. He moved in with his great-aunt, Bathilda Bagshot, in Godric’s Hollow, the same place where Ignotus Peverell was buried, from the “Tale of the Three Brothers”. He met Dumbledore then and drew him into his plans for world domination, discussing the concept of wizard supremacy “For the Greater Good” of the world, and how to locate the three Deathly Hallows in order to secure this “grand” future they envisioned.

‘To understand properly be aware that Dumbledore had two siblings, both younger. His brother Aberforth and sister Ariana. Ariana was caught performing magic at the age of six by three muggles, and they attacked her. She was traumatized as a result and lost any semblance of control when it came to magic, requiring constant and close supervision from then on.

‘Their father, Percival, in turn attacked the muggles and was sent to Azkaban, having refused to explain why, afraid he and his wife would lose Ariana to the custody of St Mungo’s. Their mother, Kendra, did all that she could to keep people away, afraid they would see Ariana’s state, and she moved the family to Godric’s Hollow not long after the incident. It was there that Albus met Gellert and they formed a friendship. He was seventeen at the time, having just left Hogwarts. Kendra accidentally died that summer by Ariana’s hand, and it was left to Albus and Aberforth to care for their sister, but Albus was neglectful due to Gellert’s presence.

‘A fight broke out one day between Albus, Aberforth, and Gellert, which quickly became violent. Ariana attempted to interfere and ended up dead for her troubles. Gellert fled, and Aberforth henceforth blamed his brother for their sister’s death. To get back to the point, one of the things that Albus and Gellert discussed was a ritual book Gellert had discovered hidden within Durmstrang. He inadvertently left it behind when he fled, and Bathilda gifted it to Albus as an apology for how Gellert left, not realizing what it was, and knowing or assuming that Albus had been infatuated with her nephew.’

‘I can imagine,’ he broke in, ‘that Dumbledore was hardly fond of muggles given Ariana’s troubles.’

‘Yes, which is why he was open to Gellert’s ideas. I interrogated a number of other people and came up with a certain picture of what must have happened then. Dumbledore never again looked at another man—or any women, for that matter—and became withdrawn, and I suspect somewhat insane. He investigated the ritual book closely and decided to make use of it, and began experiments using those in the wizarding world who labeled him a muggle-hater due to his father. The reason I became so unhinged, Joshua, is due to what the ritual does. And I suspected, with no actual proof, that you disappeared because of that ritual. I thought Dumbledore had captured you, and subjected you to it, in order to hurt me.’

Joshua let his impatience flow over the link openly.

‘The ritual allowed for a powerful enough wizard to, though the use of blood and sex magic, transfer the magic of the victim to an unborn child. Dumbledore sacrificed his enemies and used pregnant muggle women as the receptacles. When the ritual was successful the resulting child was considered a muggle-born.’

He closed his eyes, bringing up one hand to cover them. It explained so easily why his lover would have completely lost his mind, above and beyond the deterioration already caused by his disappearance.

‘Dumbledore then adopted a policy of supporting muggle-borns, both to counteract the reputation passed down by his father’s actions, and to gain power. He would have been labeled a blood traitor if not for the fact that his own mother was muggle-born. Over the years more and more people disappeared mysteriously, and the number of muggle-born births increased. His reputation grew and he ended up at Hogwarts as a professor, as you know, and then he managed to defeat Gellert, obtaining the Elder Wand, one of the three Deathly Hallows.

‘Part of the reason why Dumbledore is so skilled and so cagey is because the Elder Wand is cursed to bring trouble to its holder. He must always be on the alert for someone finding out he has it and trying to take it from him. I know of the location of the Resurrection Stone, and I suspect that you hold the Cloak of Invisibility. The master of all three is thought to become the Master of Death.’

Joshua blinked a few times under the cover of his hand. ‘The one Dumbledore gave me? But why would he do such a thing?’

‘You are, as Harry Potter, descended from Ignotus Peverell, as I am descended from Cadmus Peverell. The cloak would simply not work for him, as your father never transferred ownership of it. It belongs to you, to your family, and you are the only one who can make it work. I have the ring—you would recognize it—but I am unsure how to work it, and unsure I would wish to. It is said in the tale that use of the ring can bring madness. Dumbledore holds the wand through right of conquest. It can be taken from him by the same means.’

‘All right. All . . . right. But, Tom.’

‘Yes?’

‘Tom, you went crazy even before you knew of the ritual. As much as I loathe the idea of fighting with you over this, I must put forth the supposition that all these Horcruxes truly did harm you. You are lessened by so many, your soul fractured and your mind degraded. A seven-part soul is no miracle, it’s a tragedy.’

‘Eight, actually,’ came the reluctant admission. ‘I was able to wrest much information from a woman named Bertha Jorkins while I was in Albania, preparing to regain my body. She not only told me everything I needed to know about the Triwizard Tournament, but also that Barty Crouch Jr, one of my faithful, had been broken out of Azkaban by his father. I used her to make my familiar, Nagini, a Horcrux, believing that would be the sixth, then went to free my servant.’

‘Tom, _please_ ,’ he pleaded. ‘I saw your face. Even after you merged with your sixteen year old self you looked. . . . Have you really _looked_ at yourself? Can you _see_? Please, I _beg_ of you, retrieve the other Horcruxes. All you need is me and one other. Take the rest back into yourself. Regain your mind, become who I once knew, the person I . . . _love_!’

‘You are my only.’

‘Then you will?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Yes. You have already delivered the diadem. The diary is a part of me. The locket and ring can be easily obtained, and Nagini is with me always. What will take work is the cup, for it rests in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts.’

‘And they are in Azkaban,’ he filled in. Joshua uncovered his eyes to see that the sun was beginning to set. ‘I should return to the house for now. You’ll keep me informed?’

‘I will. You and only you.’

* * *

Voldemort let him know that the locket had been replaced by Regulus Black with a fake. He had opted to remove the note left by his former minion and return the duplicate to its resting place, as there was no reason not to. If one person could figure out his survival, others might, and the fake would frustrate them just as much as it had Voldemort. It remained to be seen where Regulus might have taken the real one, or if it even still existed.

Just prior to his birthday Voldemort met him in the park, once again invisible, and gifted Joshua with an example of their completed project. It was a fashioned from some kind of silvery metal, very light, and sized to fit his finger. As a result, Joshua detoured from his usual routine and browsed through several jewelry shops available in the area, purchasing several rings, one of which was similar to the storage ring. His watchers would hopefully think his actions nothing more than a type of vanity.

He continued to haunt the library, returning to his conviction to keep up with his muggle schooling, though he did have minor difficulties in the beginning having been away from those subjects for so long. It was two days after his birthday when an unexpected visitor arrived: Albus Dumbledore.

Joshua stared at him blankly before stepping back to allow the man inside the house. “Sir?”

“I do not mean to alarm you, but I have noticed some changes in the wards here and that must be addressed in order to assure your safety. While that is being done I wish to move you to a safe interim location.”

‘Finally got around to noticing his wards collapsed, I see,’ Voldemort commented acidly.

Joshua crinkled his brow. “Hogwarts?”

“No,” Dumbledore said with a slight shake of his head. “I will explain more once we arrive, but for the time being know that the location has exceptional protections. I’ll give you a few minutes to gather your things.”

He nodded, despite wanting to behead the man and flee. He stuck his head into the kitchen long enough to warn his aunt to ignore the ‘guest’ waiting in the hallway, then went upstairs to pack. Included were the muggle texts he had managed to purchase; he would lose a month of study time if he forgot them. Dumbledore whisked him away to a rather grim spot in the middle of a city and handed over a piece of parchment.

“Read that and concentrate on what it says as you look up,” he was instructed.

Following directions saw a house force two others aside in an interesting display of magic. Dumbledore retrieved the parchment and led him inside after tapping his wand to the front door, which seemed to have no handle. “Welcome to № 12 Grimmauld Place. If you’ll proceed to the third floor landing you’ll find several bedrooms. Please choose one for yourself, then return here. I realize it’s nearly lunch, so you must be hungry. At the end of this hall is a door to the left. Through that and down the stairs will bring you to the kitchen. All right?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, then hauled his trunk up the stairs. The bedrooms on the mentioned floor were a disaster; he choose the least awful one and placed his trunk at the foot of the bed. At least it was the only bed in the room, so odds were he would not be forced to share. Everything of any import was already stored through his ring.

Downstairs and in the kitchen he was confronted by several faces. Dumbledore and Professor Lupin, and a few others he did not recognize, but the surprising one was Sirius Black, who, on seeing him, bolted out of his chair and said, “Harry!”

Joshua took a step back and arched a brow, eyeing Dumbledore sidelong. “Sir?”

“I assure you, Sirius is innocent of the crimes he was imprisoned for. He has proven this to my satisfaction. He is also the owner of this house.”

“If you say so, sir,” Joshua slowly replied. Just his bloody luck to end up temporarily living with people he did not want to get to know.

“Please, have a seat, and help yourself to something to eat,” Dumbledore invited.

He did so warily, choosing a spot decently far enough from Black without being flagrantly rude about it. He was curious about why Dumbledore had not arranged for a trial, but asking would encourage them to believe he cared. He ate quietly, acknowledging with nods when Dumbledore introduced aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt, then slipped out after putting his plate and cutlery in the sink (“Just leave it there,” Tonks told him.) and returned to his chosen room. He wondered, idly, if Black would gather up the courage to admit their relationship, and hoped he would not.

‘An interesting place to end up,’ Voldemort commented. ‘Regulus was brother to Sirius. What are the odds the locket is hidden in that very house?’

Joshua snorted; that would be amusing, not to mention convenient. ‘You could just come check yourself. You read the secret with me. Though, I guess, that would be rather too blatant a hint. I suppose I could—’

A knock at the door interrupted, and a moment later it opened and Sirius came into view. “I’m not disturbing anything, I hope?”

“No. I was just about to begin studying. Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

Black opened the door a little wider and scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Calling me Sirius is okay. No, I just wanted to let you know that my room is on the floor above, and that you’re welcome to poke around the house as much as you like. And there’s a library on the first floor, next to the drawing room. Dumbledore’s left for the time being, but I’ll be here, along with Remus—Lupin—and Tonks and Shacklebolt will be in and out. So feel free to raid the kitchen, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Black frowned a bit, his lower lip pushing out in a pout that looked ridiculous on a man his age, then disappeared, closing the door once more. Joshua heaved a sigh.

‘License to search. If you find it put it through the ring.’

‘Of course. Though, I don’t suppose, just in case, you can create a duplicate? That way if it is here, no one will suspect me if it goes missing.’

‘I will do so now.’

He found it pathetically easy to locate and swap out. An early morning wander saw him in the drawing room with a snack from the kitchen, and a book from the library. Should anyone question him he was prepared to admit to having trouble sleeping in a strange house. A quick search through the two glass-fronted cabinets flanking the fireplace found the locket, which was swapped out in a heartbeat, the Horcrux pushed through the ring moments later. He then calmly took a seat on the sofa, grimacing when dust puffed up in response.

‘Thank you, Joshua.’

‘You’re welcome, Tom,’ he replied warmly, then drank some of his milk before opening his book. When his milk was gone he left the book on the table aside the sofa, returned the glass to the kitchen, then went to bed.

* * *

‘So, why _exactly_ does Snape despise me?’ he asked out of the blue a few days later.

‘You won’t like this,’ Voldemort warned him. ‘He was infatuated with your mother, and was, for some time, her friend. Your father was also infatuated with your mother, and saw Snape, who was in Slytherin, as a double threat. James Potter and his cronies spent their years at Hogwarts tormenting Snape. Eventually they pushed Snape too far, and when Lily tried to stand up for him, he called her a mudblood, which essentially ended the friendship.

‘He regretted that, though he never apologized, and for some strange reason thought that becoming a Death Eater would impress her, forgetting that I generally despise muggles and muggle-borns. After all, how am I to know which muggle-borns came about naturally due to a forgotten magical ancestor, and which were due to Dumbledore’s heinous theft of magic? When I went after the Potters I gave her the chance to step aside, because Snape wanted her still.’

Joshua shuddered involuntarily.

‘Mm. Snape hates you because of James, because you look so much like James, yet have Lily’s eyes, because you’re James’s son and not his own.’

‘Great,’ he replied dryly. ‘Just great. And is he really yours, or has he been corrupted by Dumbledore?’

‘That brings up another subject you will not like. In March of 1980 Dumbledore interviewed Sibyll Trelawney. Insofar as I can tell he was considering dropping the subject due to lack of a qualified person to teach it. However, during the interview she spoke a prophecy, much in the same manner as you encountered. It said: _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. . . . Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. . . ._ ’

‘Surely there was more to it than that,’ he protested.

‘Surely there is, but that is what Severus reported to me.’

‘This is about me, obviously, but. . . . I guess James and Lily could have defied Dumbledore thrice. I mean, I find it exceedingly hard to believe that I am destined to. . . .’

‘In a sense I have already been vanquished once, but I agree. Dumbledore is as much a dark lord as I, and much more evil. I am aware of where to find the prophecy in its entirety, but it means breaking into the Department of Mysteries at the ministry. I am confident I can do so.’

‘I assume you mean without alerting Cornelius “In Denial” Fudge to your return.’

‘Naturally. But before that, it might be wise to speak with Snape. He is supposed to spy for me on Dumbledore, but he may have switched sides.’

‘Wait, I don’t remember seeing him through your eyes in the graveyard.’

‘Yet I summoned him, and Karkaroff. Karkaroff has fled. I shall hunt him down and kill him. Snape, however. . . . He did appear, two hours later. Yes, you have forced me to see that I am not myself, so what is your opinion on what actions I should take toward Snape?’

Joshua considered that for a while, grateful that Voldemort did not try to hurry his answer. He would not be the least bit surprised if Snape was playing both sides of the fence. It was important to know for sure, though. If he was loyal to that bastard Dumbledore, then he would either have to be marginalized or removed from play. If he was loyal to Voldemort, perhaps that should be enforced with some kind of oath. He knew Voldemort was ‘listening in’ when he felt a sense of agreement. ‘Summon him again. Ensure he cannot escape. Question him, and if necessary, break into his mind, use veritaserum, whatever it takes. I have to wonder at his excuse for not coming to the graveyard when called. I know Dumbledore must have been somewhat involved, but that does not answer the question of his loyalty one way or the other.’

‘All right. If possible, I will lend you my eyes again, when the time comes.’

‘I would appreciate that. While it’s true I despise him for his treatment of me, I would like to know the truth. On a semi-related note, we both know I will go back at some point, though I won’t stay. I’m going to assume it isn’t because Dumbledore captures me and uses me as part of that ritual. That being so, with me returning here, can you see any reason for me to bother ever returning to the role of Harry Potter?’

‘We still have to figure out why it happens, but your question is interesting. You have never really thought of yourself as Harry Potter to begin with, is that not correct?’

‘Yes. Perhaps I did answer to Harry when I was still in Godric’s Hollow, but the time spent at the Dursleys erased that from memory. The identity I embraced was the one given me by Mrs Cole, as I had none aside from “boy” and “freak” before that. I survived by chance. Well, perhaps the prophecy has some bearing, but even so, it may come to pass that it is fulfilled and Harry Potter would be nothing more than a falsified icon. I—’ He suffered a moment of deep insecurity. ‘You do . . . still want me?’

‘Yes, Joshua. You—are—my—o _nly_.’

Joshua exhaled heavily. ‘Right. Why should I continue in a role I have always felt was just that: a role. A character in a play for which I have no script. As Harry Potter I can never stand at your side. I am _Joshua_.’

‘You have my utmost support, as I have always had yours. Always.’

* * *

Two days later, after he had begun preparing to sleep, Voldemort alerted him that Snape had been summoned. Joshua watched through his lover’s eyes as Voldemort asked Snape point blank about the prophecy. “You are a Slytherin. Perhaps you heard more than you informed me of, but kept the remainder in reserve?”

There was a distinct pause, the silence stretching thin, yet not enough of one for a person to say Snape was franticly thinking of his options. Surely he must have expected to be questioned in depth, given that he had not been that night. “The owner of the Hog’s Head caught me lurking in the hall, my lord, and I missed the remainder escaping from him, so that he could not verify my identity.” One might almost think it was Snape’s way of condescending to answer a question he thought stupid, yet not in a manner guaranteed to bring him punishment.

‘Nice, but that was not a direct answer,’ Joshua commented. ‘I am a Slytherin, too, and I see that for what it is.’

Voldemort tilted his head slightly to one side, wandlessly stunning Snape a heartbeat later. “I don’t have time for Slytherin answers.” He got up and quickly banished everything away from Snape, off to another room. A vial was produced, veritaserum, and used. While he was waiting for it to take effect Snape was tossed onto a plain wooden chair and bound into place.

‘I hope he’s not hiding portkeys in unusual places,’ Joshua quipped.

‘If he manages to escape from this situation, well, then we’ll have one answer.’ “Snape, at the Hog’s Head, the night Albus Dumbledore interviewed Sibyll Trelawney, what exactly did you hear when she spoke the prophecy?”

Snape answered flatly, “ _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. . . . Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. . . . And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. . . . And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. . . . The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies. . . ._ ”

Joshua sucked in a breath. ‘He lied to you. He _lied_.’

“Snape, why did you only tell me part of the prophecy before?”

“I was experiencing doubts at the time.”

“Snape, whom have you been loyal to, other than yourself?”

“Lily Evans.”

There was a pause before Voldemort said, “Snape, did you inform anyone by any method that you were summoned this evening, and if so, to whom, and how?”

“Yes, Dumbledore, by way of a patronus messenger.”

“Snape, how does one use a patronus as a messenger?”

“One prepares the message in one’s mind before casting, as well as focusing on the recipient.”

“Snape, what does the recipient of a patronus messenger experience?”

“The patronus locates the recipient and speaks the encoded message with the caster’s voice, then dissipates.”

There was another pause. ‘Well?’

‘ “Snape wanted her still,” you said. Does that mean he would have been happy had James Potter and I died, so long as he could have Lily for himself?’

“Snape, how would you have felt had James and Harry Potter died that night, so long as Lily lived?”

“Ecstatic. I am sure I could have convinced her to my side.”

‘He’s a sick bastard. Maybe not in Dumbledore’s league, but still a sick bastard.’

‘He was never really mine, and never will be.’ “Snape, does Dumbledore trust you?”

“Dumbledore trusts no one.”

With a streak of blinding green light Snape was dead. ‘So it goes.’

Joshua exhaled slowly. He felt nothing at the man’s death except . . . relief. ‘Tom, have you taken back any of the Horcruxes yet?’

‘One. It is an excruciating process. One must feel remorse to be capable, and the pain of it can destroy you. The only reason I could is because of you, and it is because of you I survived. It will be a while before I can absorb the next.’

‘Which one will you keep?’

‘The locket. However, when I absorb the one from Nagini, she will die of it. I regret this fact. Had I been in my right mind I would never have used her.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Will you explain it to her?’

‘Yes, when the time comes. She deserves to know. Joshua, I can feel your fatigue. Get some sleep.’

Joshua nodded to himself. ‘Good night, Tom.’

* * *

Tonks was sent out to collect what he needed for his fifth year. He accepted the books, wondering who had actually paid for them, and dumped them into his trunk. There might be some things he had not already been taught on his prior run through fifth year, but expected no difficulties in picking those up. And he was pleased that Black had done nothing more than hover occasionally, which allowed him to easily remain politely distant.

Joshua had spent quite some time mulling over the prophecy and finally came to a conclusion which felt right to him. Voldemort and Harry Potter would both ‘die’, but Tom Riddle and Joshua Durand would live. Tom might have conceived the name Lord Voldemort while they were still young, but he had not truly become him until years later. Feeling remorse, being made aware of his descent into insanity, and taking back into himself what he had split apart—it should spell the end of Voldemort. And Harry Potter would no longer have a role in this world for too longer after. Then, together, Tom and Joshua would deal with Dumbledore.

It was just a question of when.

He was escorted to Kings Cross by Tonks and Shacklebolt and took his usual compartment on the train, warded it, then opened his trunk to glance through his books. The moment he saw what they were going to be using that year for Defense he resolved to be especially wary. There was nothing of import with his other texts, and he could not see where he would actually be learning anything new that year, aside from the maneuverings of political beasts.

Draco arrived, his two thugs left outside the door as usual, and took a seat. “I have heard that the senior undersecretary to Minister Fudge will be teaching Defense this year. The minister is all in an uproar over Dumbledore claiming the Dark Lord has returned and seeks to gain some direct influence at the school.”

Joshua nodded thoughtfully. “I had wondered when I noticed what our text is for this year.”

“Rumor has it that Dumbledore came to that belief because of something you said,” Draco said a shade too casually.

“Rumor is like that children’s game where a fact becomes more and more distorted the more mouths it passes through,” he replied vaguely. “It makes me wonder what other changes might be in store for us once we arrive at the school.”

Draco shrugged. “Well, congratulations on winning the Triwizard Tournament. It’s just too bad we couldn’t really see anything of the second task, and the maze walls were too high for the third. Whoever thought up the tasks was an idiot not to consider the audience. Imagine if we’d had to pay to watch? A complete waste of good gold it would have been.”

“Mm, I agree.”

Draco tried a few more times to get something interesting out of him, failed, and eventually wandered off to seek out more entertaining company.

The opening feast featured Dolores Umbridge (a woman who, to Joshua’s eyes, resembled a rather squat human-toad hybrid with seriously questionable taste in clothing) giving a speech laden with double meaning and threatening undertones. She sounded like a spokesperson for stagnancy.

‘Why do I get the feeling she’s just ruthless and amoral enough to squeeze that bulk of hers into any regime?’

‘She is a blood purist and practically worships Fudge for some reason. She has been sent here to further Fudge’s agenda, which is, at the moment, discrediting Dumbledore and preventing him from doing something such as creating a personal army out of the student body. Considering that Dumbledore recruited for his group from the students previously, it is not a completely unfounded concern.’

Dumbledore, having regained control up at the head table, then introduced Horace Slughorn as the new Potions professor. Joshua had to repress a grimace. At least the man knew how to teach and was amiable to pretty much everyone, unlike Snape had been.

His first classroom encounter with Umbridge was amusing in a sadistic sort of way. Granger developed a severe case of nerves when it became apparent that all they would be doing was reading for the year. Weasley looked pained because his idea of reading material was anything to do with quidditch, and there were times when Joshua wondered if Ronald could even comprehend that elusive thing called theory.

If nothing else, Defense class became a time when he could glance at the assignment, skim the relevant chapter, and write out whatever essay was due; he had never been more timely when it came to delivering homework. Entertainment was provided each and every time a student would try to back up Dumbledore’s claims that Voldemort had returned. While he loathed Umbridge on principle, she presented an excellent front row view of condescension in action, spiced with a side of sadism.

When he entered Potions for the first time that year he noticed immediately that Slughorn was giving him avaricious looks, and resigned himself to trying to avoid being inducted into the Slug Club again. Of note was that Longbottom stopped blowing up cauldrons nearly every class. Slughorn started off the year with a bang, promising a vial of felix felicis to the first student who finished the day’s work and produced a perfect potion; Joshua won. The vial went through his storage ring at the first opportunity with Voldemort having assured him that it would be safe to do so. The last thing Joshua wanted for was envious people to try breaking into his trunk to steal his prize.

Umbridge was declared High Inquisitor by the end of the first week, and a large number of Slytherin students became members of the Inquisitor Squad she formed. Draco quietly informed Joshua that they were to be on the lookout for anyone, students or staff, saying anything against the ministry’s policies. Umbridge also began auditing classes to evaluate both the teachers and what they were teaching. Joshua ignored it all, keeping his head down, and refusing to be drawn into the growing conflict between Umbridge and most of the school.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 08 April - 10 May 2010
> 
> Sixth year is also a blur, with only the highlights, altered as necessary. Though, I absolutely agree with those who have sneered over how it took a year for Dumbledore to impart what should have taken a day or less.

It was not until after the holiday break that Voldemort was able to stage a breakout at Azkaban, and ten Death Eaters escaped from the fortress prison.

‘How long before you’ll have the cup back?’

‘Once Bellatrix is recovered enough. But I must warn you, she is as devoted to me as Snape was to Lily.’

‘I know that she has a fearsome reputation,’ he replied, ‘but is she actually useful beyond returning that Horcrux? I assume she is the one to do so because she won’t question why.’

‘Correct. As to her usefulness, I believe she will become a serious problem once you do away with your role as Harry Potter. She will be adamantly opposed to the idea that I will never return her feelings. She will also be adamantly opposed to the idea that anyone stands at my side, that person not being her. Odds are, she will need to be killed, put down like a rabid dog.’

Again, Joshua found it difficult to feel anything but relief at the idea. ‘What of our contemporaries?’

Anger leaked through. ‘Avery and Mulciber disappeared under mysterious circumstances, though both had sons who supported their views, thus mine. However, Dolohov, Lestrange, Nott, and Rosier are all alive, though Dolohov ended up in Azkaban. He was named by Karkaroff and captured not long after. The others never took my mark, despite remaining supporters.’

‘You think Dumbledore captured those two. At least the others should recognize me and be intelligent enough not to question where I’ve been all these years.’

‘They will be.’

Bellatrix was well enough that in April she was able to recover the cup, and by May Voldemort had taken in all the Horcruxes aside from Joshua’s and the locket’s. A trip to the Department of Mysteries, made by Voldemort with no fanfare and with extreme caution (not to mention a sip of felix felicis), revealed that the sphere containing a recording of Trelawney’s prophecy had shattered, leaving behind a collection of glass shards and a label. Anticlimactic, yet utterly gratifying.

The school year ended with what Joshua assumed must be the worst exam scores ever for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and he was pleased to be returning to № 4 Privet Drive. Joshua’s summer was another orgy of studying muggle subjects while being watched by Dumbledore’s minions, and he felt like he was in a bizarre sort of prison, or a zoo without the bars. His OWL scores, when they arrived, showed perfect marks, as expected. He was not, however, given the opportunity to visit Diagon Alley and purchase his things for the upcoming year. They were delivered to him by school owl after he had sent back the form indicating which classes he planned to continue with via a school owl which showed up to collect it.

Surprisingly he was not ‘invited’ on short notice back to № 12 Grimmauld Place. He rather thought that Dumbledore, while convinced that Voldemort had indeed returned, felt that he was safe enough where he was, with minion watchers and possibly updated wards. That suited him just fine, and he was able to get on with his limited excuse for a life. He simply wished that it meant he could meet his lover openly, but that time would come. Somehow. He was also informed by an amused Voldemort that Umbridge had been killed in a freak accident involving the Knight Bus, so there were no worries regarding her terrorizing the school for another year.

His sixth year of schooling as Harry Potter started off with a summons to Dumbledore’s office the morning after they arrived, which he went to warily. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked politely once inside the office and seated.

“Yes, Harry. I have finally been able to confirm some very important things, things which will ultimately affect you. But before I get into that I would like to ask you why you did not stand up for the truth last year, against the falsehoods the ministry has been trying to promote.”

Joshua raised his brows in surprise. “I assume you’re referring to the return of Voldemort.” When Dumbledore nodded he said, “Considering the atmosphere at the time I think my personal philosophy was correct. Minister Fudge was having none of it and even sent one of his people here to ‘keep order’. My reputation was damaged enough by having been forced into the Triwizard Tournament, and I knew if I acted rashly and contradicted Umbridge and Minister Fudge directly, all that would happen is I would be vilified in the press and tormented the entire year.

“Besides, I don’t really see why I should be the one to have to stand up and shout. People should know enough to realize you aren’t saying it as some kind of sick joke. And I honestly don’t understand why people seem to think I’m some sort of hero. I was barely a toddler when my parents died and Voldemort disappeared. What could I have honestly done to effect that outcome? I think it had everything to do with my mother’s sacrifice. If anyone is a hero it is her, not me. That’d be like saying I’m a hero because I survived a laser strike due to the person standing next to me having stuck a mirror in front of my face.”

Dumbledore sat back and began stroking his long beard thoughtfully. “You . . . remember something of that night?”

Joshua nodded. “When the dementors were around, yes. What little I _can_ remember is Voldemort urging her to stand aside, but she refused and kept offering her life for mine. She died in a flash of green light. There was one more, but. . . .”

“I suppose,” Dumbledore said slowly, “I can understand your point of view. However, there is something about that night you are not aware of, and I feel you have reached the age where I must tell you, so you can be prepared for what is to come.”

Joshua shook his head. “What do you mean, sir?”

“My boy, there was a prophecy spoken, one that foretold your birth and your role in the conflict with Voldemort. I have watched you during your years here and I know you are capable of keeping a secret as important as this.” Dumbledore got up and moved to a cabinet along one wall, motioning him to join. Inside was a rune-etched basin filled with silvery liquid: a pensieve. Dumbledore tapped one of the runes with his wand and both watched as the misty form of Trelawney arose and spoke the words Joshua already knew.

Back in his seat a few moments later, Joshua had a hard time deciding how to respond. He settled for saying, “That is alarmingly vague.”

“Though I cannot be sure how it is you survived that night, I am certain I know of how Voldemort has cheated death. I propose to show you a series of memories regarding his life, to help you to understand how he became the person he is today. Among those memories are clues to his survival, and clues as to what must be done to enact his true defeat. Perhaps together we can make the first step toward that end. Please come to my office after breakfast on Saturday and we will get started.”

Joshua decided to take that for a dismissal and stood. “Yes, sir,” he said, then quit the room. He gathered up study materials from his dorm and retreated to a secluded spot in the library, a place where he was guaranteed to avoid Ronald, who was back to being an overeager puppy. ‘Such a waste of time,’ he thought.

‘Agreed. Yet it will cause him to believe that you will follow his plans. With any luck he can be manipulated later on. Joshua, I have located something important, a possible way for you to complete the third trip, via a ritual I have found.’

He shivered at the mention of rituals. ‘Details?’

‘The ritual will send a person back to a specific time for a set period. You disappeared three years to the day from our last NEWT, on the evening of the twenty-first of June, 1948. Or at least, that is the last night I ever saw you. Naturally, this ritual is banned by the ministry, but I have it on good authority that experiments have been done by the Department of Mysteries.’

‘Let me guess. You “borrowed” the book from the Unspeakables while you were checking the prophecy? I suppose that felix felicis was handier than I expected it would be.’

Voldemort chuckled lowly in his mind. ‘Correct. They eventually decided it was too powerful of a ritual and too dangerous to the timeline, and downgraded their operations to the use of time turners. Now, depending on how your sessions with Dumbledore go, it may be that you can put forth the idea that your own use of felix felicis is what uncovered the book, and that you brought it to him with the plan of going back, getting close enough to me to be able to find what I used for my Horcruxes and where I hid them. You would then, presumably, return and pass this information on to him. He would believe you trusted him on a deep enough level to be inclined to agree with the plan.’

‘All right. The first trip was pure wish magic, I think combined with the fact that I do hold part of your soul. The second was our spells colliding and perhaps our wands reacting to each other. I would never agree to something like this had Dumbledore been the one to suggest it, but just the fact that you were the one who happened upon the ritual while under the influence of felix felicis. . . .’

That Saturday Dumbledore explained about the circumstances surrounding Tom Riddle’s birth, and the mistakes Merope Gaunt had made, though much of it was conjecture. Dumbledore had no solid proof that she had used love potions, but the evidence made it extremely likely.

It wasn’t until over a month later that he was shown a memory of when Dumbledore arrived at the orphanage to invite Tom to Hogwarts. Joshua could see what Tom had meant when he said he was sullen. He came across as being a bit disturbed, in fact, which surely caused Dumbledore to begin forming the opinion that Tom was practically dark from birth.

Dumbledore let him stew on those things until after the holiday break, then invited him to his office again. Joshua noticed almost immediately that something was wrong with the old man’s left hand. It was blackened and claw-like. “Sir, are you all right?” he asked with fake concern.

“Ah, just a bit of magical backlash, Harry. Nothing to worry about.”

‘He obviously found the fake ring, was tempted by it, and put it on,’ Voldemort commented. ‘The curse will severely weaken him over time. It may even kill him.’

Joshua nodded in response to both of them. ‘To use it to see his sister again, I suppose. Or perhaps his parents, as well.’

The old man started the session with a memory of Morfin Gaunt, Tom’s uncle, who was obviously lacking in the head. But Joshua already knew that, having been there himself, even if he had not directly met the man. It had only been a few years, so his memory was still sharp; a direct look at Morfin was ugly, but not surprising. A bit shockingly, Dumbledore also had a memory of when Tom asked Slughorn about Horcruxes. It was also shocking to see himself in that memory, but Dumbledore’s attention seemed riveted on Tom, not on the other Slytherins in the room.

“So, is that the answer?” he asked, waving one hand about vaguely. “These Horcrux things?”

Dumbledore nodded. “A Horcrux is a most evil thing, the darkest of arts.”

“But what is the point?”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said seriously, “splitting one’s soul requires the death of another, murder in cold blood. It is then possible to trap that piece of one’s soul in an object, making it a Horcrux. The reason why Tom would do this is due to his fear of death.”

“You mean like how his name means flight from death, yes?”

“Correct. Having a Horcrux means that you are anchored to this world—not like a ghost. Ghosts are people who were so afraid of the next great adventure that they never passed over, but rather stayed in that unchanging and, I think, ultimately unsatisfying pale shadow of life. Someone with a Horcrux could be struck down, yet return. I would not doubt that others have made them, and there may be Horcruxes hidden in this world, just waiting to be found and their creators brought back, even thousands of years later.”

Joshua pretended to think about that, crinkling his brow, then said, “But wouldn’t splitting one’s soul cause the person to . . . I don’t know . . . lose something? Er. . . . I mean, would that explain why Voldemort seems completely mad?”

“Yes, exactly. Splitting one’s soul causes instability. This can lead to madness of varying degrees. If Tom really did create six Horcruxes, to result in a seven-part soul, well . . . you can imagine just how how badly this would have affected a person of already questionable nature. Even a single Horcrux can be devastating.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “So, what we’re trying to accomplish is figuring out what he might have used for them, and . . . where he would have hidden them. Then we could retrieve them, destroy them, and he would be, er, vulnerable.”

“Precisely.”

Joshua grinned, then frowned. “Though I really don’t get this whole ‘power he knows not’ bit.”

“I believe that has everything to do with love. Your capacity for love, that is. Tom has never once shown the capacity for love, and I believe he truly has no understanding of what it is or just how powerful a force it is.”

Joshua mentally snorted at the absurdity. Not only was the man utterly incorrect regarding Tom’s capacity to love, he was drawing conclusions about Joshua’s own based on . . . what? He had no made no obvious connections to anyone, had no visible friends, and yet he was ‘obviously’ capable of love where Tom was not? Perhaps Dumbledore’s own inherent evil blinded him to many a thing.

“I think that’s enough for today. Think on these things, as always.”

“Yes, sir. You can be sure I will.” He started to leave, but stopped and said, “Sir, that is what happened in the graveyard, then? A Horcrux bound him to this world, and because of it, that. . . .”

“Yes, Harry.”

“I think I understand why people are so . . . afraid to face the truth. They’ve thought for so long that it’s been over, that their lives are safe. Accounts of that time are terrifying, and to have to hear that he’s not really gone, well, isn’t it human nature to practice denial against what frightens us? Most people just aren’t prepared to deal with it, and just can’t bring themselves to believe it. It’s foolish, very foolish. The minister is a prime example of this. It’s just a shame that he can’t find the courage to face the truth, and a shame that more people won’t listen to you, but I understand. No one wants him to be back.” He turned his head to the side and nodded, then left.

‘That . . . was masterful.’

Joshua smirked faintly. ‘I do have my moments.’

It was several months later that Dumbledore shared a memory of Tom’s visit to Hepzibah Smith. “Two days later she was dead, her treasures gone missing. The ministry convicted her house-elf, Hokey, of accidentally poisoning her mistress’s evening cocoa.”

Joshua made a noncommittal sound. “But this was like before, right? Like Morfin. Voldemort did it, modified Hokey’s memories, and the wrong person ends up paying the penalty for a crime they didn’t commit. I can understand why he’d want the locket, but the cup? Just because it was reputed to have belonged to Helga Hufflepuff?”

“I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so steeped in Hogwarts history. Now, ten years later Tom Riddle returned to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, and selected another memory.

Joshua cringed to see the face of his lover. His features were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of his eyes were tinged red like blood. Voldemort and Dumbledore verbally fenced, the meeting obviously doomed to failure, which it was. Joshua knew why his lover was, in part, so attached to the school, but Dumbledore had other ideas, not that he was entirely wrong.

“We have never been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort,” Dumbledore informed him after the memory ended. “An interesting revenge for the refusal, but quite tiresome.”

Joshua shrugged that off. “Sir, his face!”

“Ah, evil, Harry. The effects of Horcruxes and various Dark Arts, in this case manifested physically. Voldemort traveled far and wide, learning from many, experimenting with things best left alone and forgotten. He is an exceptionally brilliant man, I do not dispute that, but intelligence is not the same thing as wisdom. An amoral pursuit of power is a dangerous thing.”

‘Funny how you’re so blinded to yourself that looking in a mirror probably shows some rose-coloured mockery of the truth, yet you can say such things with a straight face,’ he thought. ‘Sometimes I think you just saw Tom as a threat to your own pursuit of power, and acted accordingly, except you never did manage to deal with him as you did so many of your other enemies.’

“This, I’m afraid, is the last of the relevant memories I have or have obtained,” Dumbledore informed him.

“Then what now?”

“Now I do my utmost to locate one of the Horcruxes. And when I have, you may go with me if you wish.”

Joshua widened his eyes. “You’d let me help? I mean, I’m only sixteen.”

“Harry, in the event that something should happen to me, this task would fall to you. So yes, I would let you help. But for now, do not worry too much. Run along and rest assured I will let you know when the time comes.”

That time came in mid-May. Dumbledore had tracked down what he thought was a possible location for one of the Horcruxes, a sea cave not terribly far from a village the orphanage staff had taken them all to on a holiday. As they were swimming to the entrance Voldemort was in his head, explaining what would happen inside. As well, he shared a plan he had just conceived, involving the two of them managing to win the Elder Wand from Dumbledore.

Joshua was nodding slightly as he listened, the action covered by how badly he was shivering after a swim in the ocean, and already planning how he could handle certain aspects. Things were fine until they arrived at the island. Dumbledore insisted he be the one to drink the potion, and made Joshua promise to obey, to keep feeding him the potion until it was gone. It was the only way, as Joshua well knew, to get at the item at the bottom of the basin.

And despite how delusional Dumbledore was acting by the time Joshua could snatch the locket from its resting place, he was able to rally enough to protect them from the inferi who rose from the murky waters of the cave. Outside it was a struggle to get back to land, and with Dumbledore so disoriented, it was Joshua who apparated them to Hogsmeade. The old man collapsed at that point, able only to feebly speak.

“I have to get you to Madam Pomfrey!” he said fiercely, not bothering to try to dry either of them off or warm up. He put an arm down to help Dumbledore to his feet but the old man was surprisingly heavy.

“Rosmerta,” rasped Dumbledore, pulling out his wand. He started to cast some spell, but failed due to weakness and exposure.

He looked around and saw that they were not far from the Three Broomsticks.

‘I’m in place,’ Voldemort informed him.

“Rosmerta,” he repeated. “Just stay here, sir, I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get her, okay?”

Dumbledore nodded and closed his eyes, so Joshua raced off. Voldemort was just around the corner, smiling. Together they carefully aimed their wands around the side of the building shielding them, and as one they cast the disarming charm. Voldemort caught the Elder Wand and fled as Joshua continued on to the Three Broomsticks to get Madam Rosmerta.

When he returned with Rosmerta on his heels he saw Dumbledore sprawled on the ground. “Sir! Sir!”

Rosmerta pushed past him and dried the old man off with a wave of her wand, then had Joshua help her with wrapping a blanket around him, and getting him on a makeshift stretcher. By the time they had delivered Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey Joshua was exhausted just from the effects of the excitement and adrenaline wearing off. Pomfrey was so fussed over the headmaster’s state that she forgot to insist that Joshua stay, and he gratefully slipped back out, offering to escort Madam Rosmerta back to her establishment. She thanked him, yet declined, so Joshua retreated to his dorm to get a hot shower and fall into bed.

‘The wand has been secured. I think that with us casting simultaneously it might be true that we are now the duel masters of the Elder Wand.’

‘Even if not, it’s one of us, and that’s what matters right at the moment.’

‘Agreed. Before you sleep, please do work on properly handling your memories of the evening. The old man will probably question you over what happened. When depends on how long it takes him to recover.’

‘Thank you for reminding me, Tom. I am so tired at this point it didn’t even cross my mind. I will be so damn grateful when this charade is finally over, when I can be with you again, when I don’t have to be Harry Potter any longer, and don’t have to pretend to listen to that vile old bastard anymore.’

‘And then we find a way to crush him.’ He seemed about to say more on that subject, but instead what came out was, ‘Joshua, deal with your memories and rest. We will continue later.’

* * *

“Sir!”

“Yes, Harry?” Dumbledore looked old, older than normal, and still quite weak.

“I—” Joshua stopped abruptly, waving a book around. “I can’t believe I was so stupid!”

“What do you mean? What is that you hold?”

“I had that felix felicis for so long, sir! Why didn’t I use it before? Those memories. . . .” Joshua did his best to look almost heartbroken. “But, then I did, and I found this. It—oh, wait, I’m so sorry! I didn’t—sir, are you . . . all right?”

Dumbledore graced him with a smile that was likely meant to be reassuring. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” he said gently.

Joshua took a deep breath, appearing both excited and nervous. “Are you sure you’re up for it? What happened, it was awful. Are you sure you’re recovered enough? I can’t stress you. Madam Pomfrey would have my head!”

Dumbledore chuckled weakly. “Do explain.”

Joshua shot the old man a look which combined skepticism with elation. “Earlier I remembered that vial of felix felicis I won, so I took a sip,” he said. And in truth, he was not entirely lying, as he had taken a sip to facilitate this very conversation. “I didn’t want the full twelve hours, because that seemed like a waste. I got the strongest urge to go to a corridor on the seventh floor, one that I’ve never really paid attention to before.”

“And you obeyed some rather insistent inner promptings?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir. The next thing I knew there was a door there, so I went in, and ended up in some kind of storage room. I found this book, so I started reading it, and I realized that it might be the answer to what we’re looking for!” Joshua waved the book around again. “It’s got this ritual in it. We need to know about the location of the—” He stopped, glancing around the room suspiciously. “The location of the objects of our search.”

“Ritual?” Dumbledore inquired, looking terribly interested.

Joshua moved closer and took a seat next to the bed, fidgeting restlessly. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, intensely. “It’s a time ritual. According to this book, a person could go back to a specific time for a set, limited period. Do you know what that means!? You could find out straight from the source! But . . . it’s illegal.” He slumped slightly, suddenly looking depressed. “But I had to tell you. I couldn’t not tell you,” he insisted, giving Dumbledore a look which pleaded for understanding.

The old man gave him an encouraging smile and nod of the head. “Sometimes the best choice is frowned upon by government. Men are constrained by law, but great men know when it is best to bypass that same law.”

Joshua’s brows raised briefly, though not in surprise. He expected this from the old man, given the crimes he had committed in the name of the “Greater Good”. A relieved smile flashed briefly. “You’re very powerful, sir. With this ritual you could go back and . . . and spy on him! Find out where he put them! When you got back we could track them down and take care of this once and for all!”

Dumbledore shook his head sadly, then shot up a hand when Joshua went to object. “Oh, Harry, I am too old for such an undertaking. But you. . . . You are young and strong.”

“Me!? But I’m only sixteen! How could you possibly trust that I wouldn’t mess things up? I thought—” He played at being flabbergasted, his eyes and expression in those moments surely taken as meant. By the time he left things had gone as he hoped. And Dumbledore was so taken by the plan, allegedly blessed as it was by felix felicis, that he never did remember to bring up the subject of his missing wand.

Joshua rode the train back a few days later in an excellent mood. True, he would have to suffer the Dursleys again, but only until his birthday. Dumbledore had assured him he would be brought to № 12 Grimmauld Place, and there the ritual would be done. The old man had even promised to supply him with an amount of coin for this most important venture, as well as ensuring that all coins were minted well before the targeted arrival date. It made Joshua realize that he would need to check over his own meager fortune; anything too new would simply have to be stashed away in labeled sacks.

He was, to some degree, quite surprised that having brought felix felicis into the equation made it so very simple to bypass Dumbledore’s usual cunning. The old man must have sincere faith in the workings of the potion. He had not even asked to see the book itself, and Joshua brought it back with him to study. Voldemort would be with him every step of the way in learning it, and then setting it up.

The Dursleys greeted him, if one could call it that, with their usual muted disdain and fear. He ignored them and retreated to his room, not bothering to unpack anything aside from the absolute necessities.

‘So, explain to me again why these people have yet to suffer an inexplicable yet fatal accident?’

Joshua rolled his eyes in amusement. ‘We can deal with them just as soon as I get back. I mean, I thought about letting you do it while I was in transit, but I’d like to be there.’

‘Fine, I know. So long as the old man thinks he’s winning that point. . . .’

‘Besides, wouldn’t it be more fitting to destroy rather than kill them? They fear, so much, abnormality. We could always frame Vernon for something awful. We’re already planning to destroy Dumbledore’s reputation, so why not theirs, too? It’s like the difference between leaving someone to Azkaban where the dementors torture them for years or killing them outright.’

‘Getting a little bloodthirsty, are we?’

‘I do rather like the sentiment that the punishment should fit the crime. Even if the evidence might have to be wholly manufactured. Speaking of which, why don’t you catch Vernon away from the house and root around in his memories?’

‘I will do so. However, let us speak of something far more important. Dumbledore knows that I have Horcruxes. What are the odds that he suspects you are one?’

Joshua frowned. ‘I never told him about any visions, but—’

‘But your scar is surely something he would have investigated. It is bad enough you survived a killing curse, but to have a scar which cannot be removed?’

‘So what are you suggesting? That I make a Horcrux of my own, just in case?’

‘Yes.’

It was several days later that Joshua was willing to talk about it again. ‘You’re worried that even if he doesn’t know for sure, he’d take the stand of better safe than sorry, or something like that.’

‘Yes, but also that accidents do happen.’

‘Fine. But I’ll wait a bit. I obviously cannot do it here, nor can I do it while I’m at headquarters. So I’ll wait until I’m back then.’ When Voldemort hesitated to respond Joshua suddenly realized that his lover had been trying to hint at something he had already done, that Voldemort knew he would do this and how. His lover had simply mentioned his concerns and Joshua had done the rest, being not only the one to make the actual suggestion, but for when. He laughed quietly and moved on to other subjects.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 10 May 2010 - 17 April 2011
> 
> Props to Jondosh and Aridynite again for being willing to listen to my babbling, and helping to spark ideas, and to Bats for reading everything up to this point and commenting.
> 
> This is a skippy chapter. I had a lot of trouble writing it, in case you couldn’t guess from the dates. Some sex, but not entirely explicit.

On the way to № 12 Grimmauld Place Joshua stopped at Diagon Alley, having finagled a trip out of Dumbledore. And in truth, his escort had no reason to suspect anything, as apparently Dumbledore had said nothing out of the ordinary. While Joshua was there he met briefly with his lover, during which time he handed over his ring, already having put his valuables through it. In return Voldemort handed over money in a mokeskin pouch, a few odds and ends, and some rather interesting information. Perhaps it was undignified to be clandestinely meeting in a restroom, but there were not a lot of other options, not with people escorting him.

“Shockingly, your uncle is clean. He’s not embezzling, secretly smuggling anything, nor carrying on with his secretary.”

Joshua blinked at that. For all his uncle ranted on about being normal, he had rather thought it was denial of the fact that he was doing something illegal, aside from being guilty of child neglect. “Guess we’ll have to manufacture something, then.”

Voldemort agreed and snapped his fingers, causing a house-elf to appear.

Joshua blinked at the abruptness and cast an inquiring look at his lover.

“Just in case,” Voldemort said. “If something happens to you after you return. . . .” He then proceeded to transfer ownership of the house-elf from himself to Joshua.

Joshua then eyed the little creature and said, “Famul, I will be absent for some time, and I order you to stay with Lord Voldemort and obey him until I am again able to command you. Lord Voldemort is my voice and my will while I am unavailable.”

“Yes, master,” Famul said fervently.

“Famul,” Voldemort said, “return to headquarters for now and await me.”

Famul immediately bowed low and popped away.

“I have also arranged other items,” Voldemort said vaguely, then touched his face tenderly and sent him off.

Joshua headed to the bank to withdraw most of his money. He’d worry about the minting dates after he went back. ‘While I’m thinking of it, where should I be when it’s time to come back, do you think?’

‘That run-down cottage we used as a base for a while. I’ve been keeping an eye on it and it remains deserted.’

‘Still? I’d have thought some vagrant would have drifted in by now and fixed it up. Free housing—not very good, but free.’

Voldemort sent a mental shrug. ‘Just appear there. I’ll go there before you start the ritual, to guard your return. When you’re properly alone check the bag. I’ve provided you with everything you need to do the time ritual, right under Dumbledore’s nose.’

Joshua nodded reflexively.

‘It’ll be destroyed when the ritual is complete.’

‘And if I accidentally have the book there with me, it will also? It’s just a copy, so. . . .’

‘Correct. Leave no loose ends.’

To that end Joshua spent his time alone at № 12 Grimmauld Place going over his supplies and scouting out a spot to handle things, away from the prying eyes of others. He was actually surprised that Dumbledore would do this at headquarters, especially with Sirius and Remus living there, thinking it would be bad news all around for either of them to be involved, assuming they would even agree it was a sound idea.

Lupin acted like a mildly exasperated stranger, that exasperation directed mainly toward his friend, and Black continued to awkwardly hover on occasion, always just about to say something, but never actually doing so. Joshua preferred it that way.

It was about a week after his birthday, in the dead of night and in the place he had chosen, that Joshua decided to act. Dumbledore still had not broached the subject of the ritual with him, which was fine in his opinion. A large sheet of unbleached, untainted cotton was spread out, designs already traced onto it. He worked outward in, covering the guide lines with the mixture specified by the book, and double-checking every part before moving to the next.

In the end it was him at the center, along with his things, waiting for completion. The book he was taking with him, to destroy on the other end. A short note of apology had been placed on his bed, simply stating he had gone out for a bit. Even if Black should find it he would not understand, but Dumbledore would, which was the point. It would not win him any favors, either way.

The ritual itself was simple, yet complex. It involved a lot of chanting, difficult for someone who, unlike a brainless girl gossip, spoke only at need. In the end he was gone, leaving behind a ritual cloth burned to fine ash.

* * *

Joshua yawned hugely and glanced around sleepily; the ritual had taken a lot more out of him than expected. His first action, after quickly destroying his copy of the book, was to put away his pouch. After that he corrected his appearance and changed into nightclothes. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

“How do you think you fared?” asked Tom the next morning.

It took him several moments to figure out what his lover was asking about. “Well, I think. Maybe not perfectly.”

Tom nodded. “We can continue our projects in the usual place while we wait for the results. All we need do now is suffer through the conclusion of this year, and then we’ll be free.”

‘Though what we’re going to do for money. . . .’ Joshua nodded back, and the two of them proceeded with their usual morning routine. The school year ended quietly, and their results arrived just a few days later. Perhaps it was true that grading of the practical portions of exams for NEWTs were done on the spot, with only the written portions having to be done at the ministry. OWL results obviously took second place.

They resided at the abandoned cottage for the time being, resorting to theft to supply money and food—Joshua did not want to dip into the supply of coin he had brought back yet, not until it was unlikely Tom would realize something was off. He considered attempting to invest in stocks, but realized that nothing really sounded familiar to him, and it would be problematic to create identities which would stand the test of time, especially as he would only be in the past for three years.

It was only after he had thoroughly investigated what Voldemort had given him that he understood what they could do. There were pages of information on a number of things, but what really stood out were the results of races and games, things people would bet on. Also included was information on up-and-coming companies, but he figured it would be too difficult for him to bother with, though perhaps he would make sure, before he disappeared, that the things he left behind would be found by Tom. They just needed enough muggle money to begin with. Care, along with changing faces and identities, would provide a start on wealth. Voldemort had even been smart enough to use a dicta-quill to disguise his handwriting.

* * *

The cave took months to properly prepare. Not only did they have to dig it out, it was also necessary to cover nearly every inch of the walls with runes, to guarantee its stability and also to ensure that no one would stumble over the cave. The entrance was actually a very long corridor with multiple redundant ‘doors’ every so often, each spelled and rune-engraved and requiring a Parseltongue password, with the final exterior ‘door’ requiring blood to access, either his or Tom’s. And at that, the entrance was underwater, in a lake, disguised with illusion and protected by spells to provide a barrier against the water and keep anyone else away. He would like to think that Voldemort would have mentioned if the protections had failed later on, but perhaps the man simply had not thought of it.

Joshua would slip off every so often to place bets and collect his winnings, on both muggle and magical sporting events; Tom very carefully did not ask questions. Once he had a certain amount on hand a portion was set aside strictly for gambling, while the rest was stored through the rings in their own personal vault, to be used for anything they needed.

It was all the work they had done which pointed Joshua’s thoughts in a tangential direction. “I’m wondering,” he said late one afternoon, “how hard it would be to learn curse breaking. I mean, we just spent all that time setting up protections, but how easy would it be for a curse breaker to rip them down?”

Tom arched a brow at him.

“Did we do enough?” Joshua questioned. “Were we thorough enough? Were we thinking creatively enough? What if someone suspected something and came at it from a different angle? Blast through the rock from a different direction? Someone with muggle knowledge, perhaps able to sound out that there is a cavern? Someone who finds this and becomes curious enough to investigate?”

Tom frowned slightly and sat back, his body at once relaxed and tense. “Interesting questions, I admit.”

“There are muggles who delight in finding and exploring caves, hoping to find long lost artifacts or even evidence of ancient cultures. Perhaps I am simply being too paranoid. . . .”

Tom smirked, his eyes alight with interest. “I do not see why you should not investigate curse breaking. Both of us, even. There is no harm in acquiring more knowledge, and if it benefits our protection schemes it is doubly useful.”

“I realize,” he said with a nod, “that technically it would not matter if it were found as it exists, in this state of being. It is within dead-space that we employ it. Even so. . . . And in any case I would like to learn more magic that is useful, not the rubbish we were usually taught at Hogwarts.” He paused and shot a slightly hesitant look at his lover. “There is one other thing I wish to bring up. I plan to make a single Horcrux for myself. Just in case.”

Tom blinked a few times.

“Just _one_ ,” Joshua said firmly.

“All right,” Tom said slowly. “How much thought have you put into this?”

He could have taken that badly, but did not. “I know exactly what I want to do, though I would like your help, naturally. There is some research I have yet to complete, but after that it will be fine to proceed. Here’s what I have in mind. . . .”

* * *

He came ‘home’ from his volunteer job at a hospital in London to find that Tom had the table set with food, wine, and a small wrapped box. “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

Tom favored him with a bland look. “You are ready, are you not?” he replied, taking one of the seats and flipping his napkin open.

“Yes,” he said slowly. As he seated himself he added, “Except for the receptacle.”

His lover nudged the box toward him, a slight smile on his face. “Perhaps this will suit?”

Joshua eyed the package with a vague sense of wariness, then pulled it to him and carefully unwrapped it. Inside the box was a somewhat worn and chipped figurine of Anubis in full jackal form. His brow furrowed as he examined it closely, vaguely making the association between the Horcrux he was planning to make and the god’s link to death, and eventually he looked curiously at Tom, who happened to be smirking. “I know there’s a story behind this.”

Tom’s smirk became a smile before he said, “Indeed. Such a shame the protections at the museum were nothing to a wizard of my caliber. I thought it appropriate.”

He huffed lightly. “So this is genuine.” Joshua set the figurine next to his plate and smiled at his lover. “I do like it. Thank you.” He already knew exactly who his target would be; his volunteer work had seen to that. There was a young boy in the children’s ward suffering from a terminal case of cancer. Nothing had worked on the child, yet the doctors kept him alive, continued his wretched existence.

The boy’s parents were unwilling and unable to let go, and wealthy enough to keep flinging money at a problem which could not be fixed. In their grief over the situation they had become willfully blind, not only to reality, but to the suffering they forced on their son. The boy himself, Jonathan, understood all too well and was ready to die. He knew this from long talks with the child.

Joshua was prepared to give that child his wish. True, he could simply find an unrepentant criminal, but he did not wish to ‘taint’ his Horcrux. While his act would not be selfless it would give the poor child what he wanted, and painlessly so, as an act of mercy. He might well be splitting hairs, but he was prepared to live with the outcome either way. And now he had a vessel.

Several weeks later he quit his job—coincidentally two days after Jonathan breathed his last—claiming that he did not have the fortitude to handle that again, not that anyone really cared about his reasoning. His Horcrux felt different from those of Tom’s he had handled, but perhaps that was wishful thinking.

What he was unsure of as yet was where he would secure the Horcrux, though he could use the cave. Not knowing how it might be affected made him a bit wary of that option. He also needed to prevent Tom from trying to resurrect him after he went missing. He could not flat out state anything, and hints would have to be bare, assuming he could even speak any. Did Tom trust him enough—truly trust him—to simply swear a vow?

Certainly, if he died after his return Tom would know at that point, but Voldemort had already told him he thought Joshua died at the hands of Dumbledore. What would happen if Tom tried to resurrect him when he was not only alive but in a different time? He grimaced at the idea, still no closer to an answer. Naturally, his lover picked up on his mood, but spoke not, merely arching a brow in a mildly infuriating way. If only. If only. . . .

“Still deciding on a place?”

“Yes. I want something seemingly timeless, very obvious, and at the same time not. Something like a location famous to the muggles, but not necessarily to magicals. For example, a castle that’s been around for centuries, sees everyday use, but where no one would notice if I slipped into the cellars and secured it there, perhaps inside one of the stones. Maybe a magically expanded spot. Perhaps a room that has been closed off for a hundred years or more which could be placed under spells.”

Tom appeared to consider his words seriously, and eventually nodded. “The basic premise sounds reasonable. There would be no reason for anyone to suspect. Let us see what we can find.”

Research provided exactly what he was looking for, thus they sneaked into the chosen castle and down to its depths. The walls were in excellent condition, but that did not prevent them from extracting one of the stones and creating a hole behind it and to the side, where it would not be immediately obvious. The Horcrux was placed inside, wards emplaced at the opening, and the exterior stone was replaced, magic fixing their alterations.

“I want you to promise me something,” he said quietly when they had returned ‘home’. “This is one of those things I cannot explain, you understand. I need you to trust me.”

Tom’s jaw tightened faintly. “I expect I have no choice.”

“I don’t like it any better than you do,” Joshua said a bit snappishly. “You have no idea just how deeply it pains me to not be able to tell you everything. There should _never_ be secrets between us!”

His lover took a figurative step back and nodded, his expression softening. “Yes. What promise do you require of me?”

“If—if I should die. . . .” He licked his lips. “Promise me, _swear_ to me, that you will not use that Horcrux until I am with you in spirit.”

Tom arched a brow, appearing somewhat suspicious, then said evenly, “I could not in any case, my only. You must be there, as part of any ritual.”

Joshua felt a bit taken aback at his stupidity. He _knew_ that.

“Should the worst happen,” Tom continued, “I will keep checking the location for you, as it is known. Thus, I swear.”

He exhaled in relief and nodded. And then reminded himself to check into resurrection rituals, knowing only of the one he had personally witnessed.

* * *

“I’ve been thinking about our experiments,” Tom said one evening after a long day of studying curse breaking books. “I must wonder at what would happen to a living being held in dead-space for any length of time.”

Joshua bit his lip in thought, worrying it between his teeth. “Perhaps a snake? At least those we can talk to. Though, they’re reptiles and we’re mammals.”

“It would be a start,” Tom agreed.

“What would this be for, anyway?”

“A safe place for us. A place no one but ourselves could ever get to. Can you imagine being able to build a home inside dead-space? But it would be useless if staying there too long would adversely affect us. You would have to know the location to ever make a portkey there, and no one would ever be able to find it, much less likely imagine it to begin with.”

“So try snakes with portkeys which delay in the middle, get their impressions, then try trials with us with portkeys which pause for progressively longer periods of time?” he suggested.

Tom nodded. “You know I managed to slow one down. Now that we know more, now that we can stop them as a delivery method for our storage, I expect we can change that to a delay.”

Their ‘home’, such as it was, was actually quite comfortable by that point, and with the amount of gambling Joshua was doing they were acquiring a hefty amount of money—both muggle and wizard—and lived well for their situation. No one ever bothered them at their remote cottage and repairs had been made enough to make it tenable. Thus they passed the time with research, visits to other countries, and experimentation.

Joshua soon came to realize he had been in the past again for nearly three years. Granted, he had a more than passable handle on curse breaking, and they had made great strides in their goal of a secure hideaway, but he could not claim to be expert in the former or finished with the latter. He was going to have to leave his lover again. ‘Yes, I’ll see him again immediately, but he’ll be alone again, and I know what happens to him. I think I can see why he was happy enough to send me back, even knowing, even if it pains me. The him of then knows, but this one. . . .’ He strove to be more attentive to his lover without seemingly doing so, not wanting suspicion to arise. And he was convinced by then that Tom truly loved him. The only other explanation was that Tom was a consummate actor and he a consummate fool—but no, the Tom of then was unmistakable; sharing thoughts did not allow for lies.

He took to brooding on occasion when Tom was not in a position to notice, wondering how he should handle his departure. He was already in the location he needed to be, but. . . . He also took to leaving early some mornings for walks, to lend some credence to the idea that he could have disappeared away from the cottage—captured, as Voldemort had suspected but never been able to be sure of. The evening he was sure was his last he lured Tom into their shared bed by the simple expedient of saying, “Hey,” and giving him a slantwise look. They were both young men in their prime and always ready, if not necessarily thinking about it. Tom took the hint and pressed him down on the covers after a quick wave of his hand undressed them. Joshua suffered a slight moment of absurdity when he realized he would actually need to get his clothes back on after his lover feel asleep, lest he arrive back in his own time naked.

They wrestled for a bit, each trying to assert dominance of a sort, and Joshua ‘won’ when he managed to flip Tom over and slithered down his body. Waiting for his attention was a stiffly erect reminder of just how he affected his lover, and he gladly dipped his head to pay homage. It was not long before he was bodily hauled up and flipped onto his back, Tom taking control of their lovemaking as he generally did, using hands and teeth and lips and tongue to drive Joshua practically out of his mind. And yet, he had a spare thought at that moment to wonder how it would feel when he was back, when their thoughts were linked so intimately, more intimately even than their bodies would be. That was dashed away as Tom pushed into him, driving away all other thoughts.

Later, once Tom had fallen asleep, he quietly arose and spelled himself clean of the sweat of their exertions, and dressed himself, casting frequent glances at his lover. It was not long before he was whisked away again.

And landed flat on his back. His head slowly rose at the sound of laughter to see Voldemort standing there, amusement at his expense more than plain. “Ha ha.”

His lover got himself under control and said, “I’ve been thinking about your uncle. Just how real do we want this to be? I know what he fears and we have much to choose from under the umbrella of his disdain and fear of abnormality.”

An odd thing to start off with, he thought absently, then got up with a helping hand from Voldemort. “Well, we could frame him for something. Or we could just drive him mad. Or at least, make other people believe he was mad. We could—” He broke off when his lover pulled him into a tight hug and kissed his temple, and relaxed into the embrace. At first it felt so strange—Tom had never acted like this in the past—but then, Tom had never felt need to then, had he. Yes, they had met up a few times already in the present, but never with any opportunity to be themselves—not really. Joshua smiled faintly and snuggled closer.

Eventually Voldemort released him—with a touch of reluctance he thought—and said, “We cannot stay here long. You must return.”

“I know,” he replied quietly. “I assume I was only gone for the same amount of time?”

“Correct. Depending on the wards Dumbledore has on that house he may know you disappeared. Therefore we should go to London quickly. The sooner you return there the more obvious it will be that you are safe. He cannot possibly expect that you could return to the exact same location you left from; the magic does not work that way. And he never did check the ritual.”

Joshua sighed and nodded. “All right. May I have my ring back?”

Voldemort promptly handed it over, waited for him to wear it again, then took Joshua’s arm and apparated them to an alley not far from the Leaky Cauldron. “Fix yourself,” he whispered.

Joshua rolled his eyes and assumed the seventeen-year-old form of Harry Potter, altered his clothes, and pulled up the hood of his robes. “You realize, of course, that _I’m_ not licensed to apparate,” he whispered.

“Naturally. I will walk with you most of the way. The wards of that place do not extend out—I have checked. I will see you to near the door. But, I think, conversation should remain—” ‘—in our thoughts.’

‘Agreed. Shall we?’ he asked. It was about a mile to № 12 Grimmauld Place, and while London after midnight was perhaps not the safest place to stroll in they were not disturbed in any way, despite their anachronistic robes. Charms were wonderful things, after all. They discussed the various Horcruxes that ‘Harry’ had ‘located’ in the past and how to disseminate that information. Voldemort suggested more felix felicis—it should protect him for the time being from any untoward lines of questioning.

He parted from his lover with reluctance. ‘Soon, hopefully.’

‘Soon.’

He could see Voldemort watching from the shadows as he slipped the remaining distance to the house. A tap of his wand opened the door, and only moments later Dumbledore strode into view, a strange look on his aged face.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Dumbledore said. “For now, I suggest you rest.”

Joshua nodded and slipped up the nearby stairs, grateful to be away from the man so easily, and gained his room with relief. He cast an alert ward behind him and began stripping off his clothes, shortly sliding beneath the covers and laying back. ‘At least I’ll have the opportunity to use it.’

‘Mm. Set an alarm, and sleep well, my only.’

* * *

Dumbledore drew him into one of the many unused rooms for their little talk and immediately began scolding him for his actions with a look of disappointment on his face. Joshua rather thought that anyone who looked up to the old man would feel deep shame at this point and strove to look repentant. But then, Gryffindors were supposed to be reckless, were they not?

“I just thought,” he said, trying to explain himself, “that it was better to do it so late, you know? Then the others here wouldn’t become involved, or be suspicious in any way. This is supposed to be secret, after all, and it was highly illegal. And I made sure to be to close by when the time came, so as to minimize any danger.”

Dumbledore nodded and gently remonstrated for another space of time, then finally got around to the point: the Horcruxes.

“Oh yes,” he replied eagerly. “I found out a _lot_! I really think we can do this.” He then proceeded to explain in detail what he had ‘found out’ while in the past—Voldemort prompting him the entire time—the items, the locations, anything of interest. He was pleased to see that the old man’s eyes gleamed at the information. “Those spells you taught me were inordinately helpful. I _know_ he didn’t suspect a thing,” he continued, ignoring the laughter in the back of his mind.

“Excellent work, my boy. I knew you would be able. You should have more trust in me when I say these things.”

Joshua tried his best to look embarrassed. “Well—right. When do you think we can begin? Maybe with the closest one?”

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. “We have time before the start of the school year, certainly. Yes, the closest one would do nicely, I think. We shall soon go to Hogwarts, Harry. Technically we are not supposed to house students at the castle during the summer, but I think it is necessary. Make sure your things are packed. I will let you know when it is time to go.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, choosing to interpret that as a dismissal. A few minutes later he was back in his room, going through the items in his trunk. Anything of value—not that there was much—would go through the ring. Everything remaining could be easily replaced, and most of it was unnecessary anyway at this point. The moment it was safe to he would never be Harry Potter again, so it was not like he was worried about passing any classes.

A few days later Dumbledore escorted him to the castle and waved him off to Gryffindor tower for the time being after an admonition to come to his office for lunch, after which they would head for the forest where the diadem of Ravenclaw was hidden.

He thought it prudent to once again take a sip of felix felicis before setting out. It was just a feeling he had, a gut urge, one he could not explain nor wished to examine too closely. Lunch was mundane enough, with conversation covering their expected plans, and shortly thereafter the two were striding across the extensive grounds and into the forest.

They were looking for the landmarks Voldemort had supplied to Joshua when Dumbledore suddenly said, “No.”

Joshua frowned and look over his shoulder, saw where the old man’s gaze was, and looked there as well. He saw nothing. A second later he ducked as a bright green light flashed by him, twisting around to stare at Dumbledore in patent disbelief. The old man had his wand raised and aimed at him. “What on earth—!?”


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 17 April - 13 May 2011
> 
> I had an extremely hard time with the start of this chapter, for reasons some of you will likely understand. Massive thanks to Bats for tossing ideas back and forth with me, even when I was suffering from a severe lack of sleep and coming up with really whacked ideas at one point. (And no idea how the police and searches work in the UK, so I’m using some of what Bats provided me with since, in her words, she’s “been watching too many British mysteries”.)

Dumbledore sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. “Harry my boy, you are far too much like Voldemort.”

Joshua managed to look highly offended at that. “You can’t possibly be serious! What are you talking about?” he demanded, eyeing the wand still aimed at him.

“I had my doubts from the day you came to this school,” Dumbledore said. “You looked innocent enough, but your actions over the years. . . . Very Slytherin, too Slytherin, not much at all like a Gryffindor.”

Joshua just stared at him in apparent disbelief and incomprehension. ‘You are nearby, right?’ he asked a bit nervously.

‘I am,’ came the welcome reply.

“I regret to inform you, child, that you, too, are a Horcrux of Voldemort. It explains so very much.”

“You’re mad,” he asserted fiercely.

Dumbledore looked at him sadly. “I’m so sorry, Harry, but it is truth. Your attitude, what I suspect is your ability to speak Parseltongue . . . it all adds up. You are regrettably tainted by the association. If Voldemort is to truly be defeated you must die. But die knowing you were a necessary sacrifice for the Greater Good, and your name will always be remembered as the one who delivered us from Voldemort.”

A second later the old man began shooting spells at him, and Joshua reacted out of pure reflex, dodging nearly everything, whether by his own merits or with the help of that felix felicis. He was hit glancingly, but not fatally, until a lucky shot managed to blast him into a nearby tree. He was trying to get back up, his breathing badly affected by the impact, when a male centaur galloped into view, bow drawn, the colour of the wood in startling contrast to his dark hide and skin.

“What is happening here?” the centaur demanded. “Why do you break the peace of the forest?”

Dumbledore did not even try to explain, he simply changed aim and nailed the centaur with a killing curse. Joshua just had time to see the look of disbelief on the creature’s face before the corpse crashed into him, driving him onto a broken branch.

He coughed, surprised to see blood splatter from his lips, and looked back at the headmaster. The old man was smiling, albeit a bit sadly, but yet pleased. “Wha—!” He could say no more, and suspected his lungs were quickly filling with blood and would soon suffocate him. He also suspected some of his ribs were broken. It was the look on the old man’s face which told him no help would be evident from that quarter. ‘Tom. . . .’

‘I’m here,’ Voldemort assured him. ‘Yes, you’re dying. I will make sure it’s all right. Please trust in me.’

Please. Something he rarely _ever_ said. He coughed again, more blood issuing from his mouth, and he felt a strange sense of weakness overcome him. How exactly did that felix felicis help the situation, he wondered. His eyes were just beginning to close of their own accord when Voldemort appeared with a cackle of maniacal laughter on his lips.

“So, Dumbledore! Broken another tool, have you? Done my job for me?”

Trust. He would trust—in his lover. His eyes slipped closed and his hearing began to go, sounds muffled as though he was under water. He could no longer understand the words being spoken, though a part of him recognized that spells were being cast. He felt so cold, so very cold, but strangely not scared. Dying was . . . easy.

What seemed a moment later he was awake and alert, watching as Voldemort slammed Dumbledore into a tree and knocked him unconscious—perhaps he was not the only one to partake of that potion. His lover quickly moved forward, a stunning spell leaving his wand, then bent down warily to collect some of the old man’s blood in a vial. Seconds later he was up and backing away, closer to—his body?

Joshua blinked and looked around, only to see his dead and broken body there on the forest floor. A part of him screamed in anguish, but sense reasserted itself long enough for him to—float—to his lover and overlap the man, attaching himself to Tom in the most intimate way yet. A second later he heard a startled thought which consisted entirely of ‘—!’

‘I am with you,’ he said.

‘This is the—never mind. _Stay_ with me!’ Voldemort commanded, then moved quickly to push away the centaur’s body and tenderly lift Joshua’s own into his arms. ‘I already have my Horcrux and I must move quickly before I am overcome. _Stay—with—me_!’

A quick half-turn and he was in another place entirely, one he did not recognize in the least. He watched as Voldemort placed his body on a bed, cast several spells, then collapsed. The pain his lover was going through drove him from Tom’s body—not all of it was connected to the assimilation of the Horcrux, either. It seemed a lifetime later that Voldemort carefully stood up, his face drawn and haggard with remembered pain. Joshua overlapped him again. ‘I am with you,’ he repeated.

His lover sighed with relief and nodded. “We must prepare—I have prepared. We can do this quickly. But first, I _must_ repair the damage to you.” He muttered as he cast, saying it had been the strangest sensation indeed to feel someone else sharing his body, even so tentatively. When he was done Voldemort had carefully stripped Joshua’s corpse—even of the ring—and Joshua saw that he looked perfectly alive—except for the not breathing part.

‘Now?’

“Now we do the ritual.” And so he did. Voldemort had already, without his knowledge, pilfered from the grave of James Potter. Famul was summoned—and promptly went into hysterics. A huge cauldron was already waiting, a fire was lit beneath, and Joshua’s body lowered into the murky fluid within.

He shuddered, not that he technically could.

“You need to enter as well,” Voldemort said, a slight grimace on his face. “Settle into the body.”

‘All right,’ he said, sending a feeling of love to Tom, and followed his instructions.

“You will not turn out as I did,” Voldemort assured him. “The circumstances are not the same.”

After that it went quickly. James Potter’s bone was tossed in, Famul sacrificed a hand—his left—and Dumbledore’s blood was added. Except—the time between then and when he emerged seemed like yet another lifetime, this one of unceasing pain, through which he had to wonder if this was punishment for perverting the natural order of things, for daring to defeat death. He stumbled out and promptly collapsed, straight into Voldemort’s arms.

“Rest,” he was urged. “You only just died. The shock alone. . . .”

* * *

When he awoke it was dark out and he was lying on a bed, neatly tucked under the covers. Voldemort was sitting on a nearby chair, his face drawn, staring out one of the windows. Famul was nearby also, sporting a silver hand, much like Pettigrew’s. He sincerely hoped the poor thing was all right. While he normally did not have much use for the creatures, this one was special. “Tom,” he rasped, and was pleased to see Voldemort’s head snap up. “Hey.”

His lover launched himself up and sat beside him, leaning over to kiss his temple and stroke his fingers through Joshua’s hair. “Welcome back.”

“I feel surprisingly well,” he managed to say, “but I don’t recommend dying that way to anyone else.”

Voldemort glared at him, then his expression softened. “It seems the felix felicis worked well. You didn’t die by anyone’s direct hand. It was an accident.”

Joshua smiled at the directness and the line of thought. “I had wondered. You believe this means our connection to the Elder Wand is unaffected, right?”

“Precisely. A nice bonus, if you will.” Voldemort smoothed the hair back from his forehead again before asking, “Are you hungry?”

To his surprise he was, so he nodded.

“Famul, bring a light meal for your master,” Voldemort ordered, then turned his attention back to Joshua. “I wish I’d had the time to do more to Dumbledore,” he said regretfully.

“But you couldn’t. Staying would only have placed you in danger.”

Voldemort nodded. “I had him completely helpless.” He shook his head. “You are far more important.”

“And Harry Potter is officially dead, so no more pretending,” he said with heartfelt relief, a slow smile blossoming across his face. He reached up and pulled Voldemort’s face to his and kissed him soundly.

Famul arrived at that moment, squeaked, and nervously shuffled over to the bed with a tray. “Masters. . . .” he said uncertainly.

Voldemort pulled back and helped Joshua to properly sit up, then took the tray from the house-elf, placing it over Joshua’s lap. “Time enough for you to get up. For now, eat.”

He took the spoon and started to eat the soup awaiting him, then was struck again by what had so recently happened. His hand began to tremble, soup splattering all over the tray and covers, and he quickly set it back down. “Sorry. Give me a minute. I’m suddenly feeling more than a little traumatized.”

His lover simply nodded. “Perhaps the bread instead?” he suggested.

Joshua knew Voldemort had not acted this way when he had been reborn, but. . . . so much had happened then, and he had had time to be used to the idea. In point of fact, he had no idea how the man had reacted once Harry was back at Hogwarts.

“Somewhat strangely,” Voldemort said vaguely, then nodded at the bread.

He blinked. “I didn’t realize I had thought that loud enough,” he replied, then took up the bread, nicely buttered already, and had a bite.

“As I said, your circumstances are different. As part of that, you look exactly like yourself.”

He continued to eat his bread, pondering that, and wondered if Tom meant that he had no snake-like taint. And why would he?

“Because part of my ritual involved strengthening myself with a potion made from Nagini’s venom,” Voldemort explained. “You were—fresh. Your own body. There was never any need.”

Ah. Bread finished he began on the soup again, this time with a much steadier hand. Funny how he was sharing thoughts so much more easily now. Perhaps because they had briefly shared the same body?

“Perhaps.”

He wondered what Famul was making of this mostly one-sided conversation and laughed slightly, casting an amused look at his lover. Then he wondered—‘Why did I still have one? You did not.’

“Method of death, perhaps. I don’t really know. Maybe the potion interfered. Had your body vanished Dumbledore would have been highly suspicious, I imagine.”

No point in worrying about it, he supposed. Pudding was fresh strawberries with cream and a little sugar. After that he was ready to get out of bed. Famul took the tray and disappeared, so Joshua slowly—just in case—got out of bed. Voldemort—almost incongruously—hovered nearby to catch him if he stumbled.

“I feel fine,” he said. “I think I’m going to be a bit mental for a while, but I feel fine right now. Where is my wand?” Voldemort arched a brow, then produced it from the bedside table and handed it over, so he gave it a quick wave, feeling reassured when he felt familiar warmth creep up his arm. “Er, who do I look like?”

His lover snorted softly. “Potter.”

Joshua grimaced and quickly remedied that, walking over to a mirror on one wall to assure himself of the results, then adjusted to age himself up to something closer to his lover’s apparent age. “Is this our bedroom?”

“Yes and no. Do you remember that project we were working on before you left?”

He turned around slowly, excitement suffusing him. “You finished it?”

Voldemort nodded, his expression rather smug. “Doing it by myself was hardly a pleasure, but it is complete. We have a home in dead-space. And to that effect, I have a gift for you, a permanent portkey which will take you there. All I need to do is key it. This building is my nominal headquarters, but nothing of true importance is here in case it should ever be found. I do have others as fallbacks, but this one is it for the time being.” He removed the ring from his finger and expanded it, then retrieved another one, remarkably similar in nature to the one Joshua already wore. A closer look revealed that it was mirror smooth on the outside, but the inside surface had a single, perfect groove. “I just need a little blood,” his lover stated.

Joshua promptly offered up his hand, watching curiously as Voldemort scored a thin line around his left ring finger, just enough to make it bleed, then slipped the ring into place—like a wedding ring, he thought.

Voldemort gave him an odd look. “It will be set shortly. For now, if you feel up to it, I shall give you a tour. You can always apparate into this room—you’ve already been keyed.”

He nodded, willing enough to see new sights, and have a chance to get his equilibrium solidly back. The next day a newspaper was tossed onto the table next to his plate, so Joshua glanced over and paused, his eyes widening slightly. “Oh, so I’m big news again, being dead and all. And look—you killed me!” he said with a laugh.

“Are you surprised,” Voldemort said dryly.

“Hardly! I can’t imagine Dumbledore would take the blame when you so conveniently showed up, and even if you hadn’t I expect you’d be blamed. And how interesting that the centaur Dumbledore killed isn’t even mentioned. I wonder how he explained that one, or if the other centaurs assume you did that, too. I have to wonder if he even recognizes them as thinking, feeling, sapient beings.” He paused and added slyly, “You do sometimes slay me with your humor.”

Voldemort arched a brow at him. “You are in an exceptionally good mood today, especially after that screaming nightmare which woke us in the middle of the night.”

“Aren’t you, too?” he replied, ignoring the reminder. “I’m free, I’m myself, and I’m with you. For the moment nothing else much matters.”

“The older crowd will no doubt recognize you, and that’s all that matters in the end. They will recognize your right to authority. And speaking of authority, I need to explain to you how the Dark Marks work. It can wait until I’ve shown you other things, however, and tested a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Our real home, for one, and to see if the Elder Wand responds to you.”

Joshua nodded and went back to his meal, idly reading the article about his death, then took a last bite, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and stood up. On the way back to the bedroom to get ready for the day he said, “I can think of one very important thing we need to do.”

“Oh?”

He nodded and remained silent, even mentally, until they passed through the door. Then he sent a slantwise look at his lover. That was all it took.

* * *

The Elder Wand was stored at their dead-space home. Voldemort retrieved it from its resting place, an innocuous enough box in a storage room clear across the house from pretty much every thing of interest. An odd look flitted across his lover’s face, and then the wand was handed to him. The second his fingers wrapped around the wood he sensed something. “Maybe I’m crazy, but it seems like this wand has a type of sentience, and it’s feeling slightly confused over having two masters,” he said quietly. The wand almost seemed to be muttering in his head. It rather creeped him out so he returned the wand to its box and closed it, then curled his fingers around Voldemort’s arm and drew him away, out of the room.

As they walked down the hall he said, “I must wonder if it’s possible for us, each, to grant dual ownership of our Hallows.”

“Truly make us each a Master of Death, or thus as a duo,” Voldemort mused. “Either way, the wand is most assuredly ours.”

Joshua nodded absently and continued on a little farther, then drifted to a stop. When his lover stopped beside him he turned, placed both hands on Voldemort’s face, and closed his eyes, concentrating. He could feel by the way the flesh beneath his fingers moved that his lover was only just holding himself back from asking questions about this abrupt and unexplained behavior, but he ignored that. He had been, though not for long, an intimate part of Voldemort, sharing his body, and they retained their mental connection despite the Horcrux he once carried being reclaimed. Thus he concentrated, envisioning exactly the outcome he desired, and finally opened his eyes. And smiled. “Maybe you should glance in a mirror,” he suggested.

Voldemort arched a brow, then reached up to cover Joshua’s hands with his own, slowly drawing them away. He kissed each palm before lowering them gently and conjuring up a mirror. What he saw made his nostrils flare in subtle surprise; the snake-like taint from his rebirth was gone and it did not seem to be mere illusion. The mirror was sent back to aether and that brow arched up again in silent inquiry.

Joshua smirked at him playfully. “It was just a notion I had. We’re still connected, you and I. Your body was our body for a time. I used that connection to make my powers flow into you. Perhaps you cannot make the change yourself, but I am a metamorphmagus and I can . . . lend that power to you. You can maintain it. That is, if you want to.”

A slow smile stretched his lover’s lips, and then he said, “I know it upset you. Not that you treated me differently for it. I will maintain it, yes.”

* * *

He had the first inkling that something was amiss when he realized that Joshua’s hands were trembling again. They had been talking about betrayers and those who needed to die—such as Karkaroff, Bellatrix, and Dumbledore—and Joshua had seemed fine. Yet, his lover’s hands betrayed his agitation. He also realized, with a slight start, that Joshua’s mind had gone curiously blank. Even so he appeared to be completely cognizant of their conversation. By the time a few more minutes had gone by he noticed that Joshua’s eyes kept going unfocused, only for him to snap back to awareness almost immediately. Thus he abruptly changed the subject with, “Joshua, do you not feel well?”

His lover paused for several long moments, then gave him the strangest look. “Well?” he asked. “Well?” Joshua started laughing quietly, his ostensible amusement gaining strength quickly. Voldemort blinked in consternation as Joshua’s laughter turned from quiet to distressingly loud, hysterical and maniacal. Tears ran down the blond’s face as he screamed incoherently and things around them began to explode and burn without warning; it was a miracle neither of them were hit with any shrapnel. Obviously Joshua was not . . . well. In fact, he seemed to be having a breakdown right in front of his eyes. ‘JOSHUA!’

His lover went suddenly silent, curling in on himself, eyes luminous with tears. Voldemort moved to enfold Joshua with his arms, now able to hear his mind once again. Delayed shock, insomnia, flashbacks to his death, repressed anger toward Dumbledore . . . and the cunning to be able to hide it from him. Voldemort gently pressed a kiss to his lover’s head. Joshua had been prevented by circumstances out of his control from being there when Voldemort went crazy—indeed, his madness was almost a direct result of him not being there—but he would be damned if he would not be there when his lover obviously needed him so desperately. He would help him through this.

* * *

Joshua awoke and yawned lazily, then wondered almost immediately what the hell he was doing in bed. The last thing he knew they had been discussing—oh. Heat suffused his cheeks as his memory came back of recent events.

“Do you feel better?”

He opened his eyes to meet Voldemort’s and worried his lip between his teeth. “I feel in control again,” he said softly.

Voldemort nodded, his gaze soft. “When I died it happened extremely quickly. The rebounded spell accelerated so quickly I had neither time to think nor dodge. It wasn’t until after I was a mere spirit and in a place I felt relatively safe that I fell apart. I ranted like the madman I was. Had I real power at that time I’ve no doubt the forest around me would have been devastated.” He smiled faintly, almost ruefully. “I was prepared to return to life. I’d had plenty of time to get it out of my system, what happened, though I don’t think you ever completely recover. I did, however, go a bit crazy again, once you were safely back at the school, but more because I finally understood just who it was I’d been trying to kill. I felt such remorse, such pain. Still, a part of me cannot regret that I went there that night, that I unwittingly started this chain of events by killing your birth parents and trying to kill you. Though, I suppose, the second you appeared in the past those events were fated, set in stone. I wonder at times if we are all pawns to fate, all fools dancing to her tune. Or, perhaps, simply guided in mysterious ways to paths that eventually give us what we’ve earned.”

“What does not kill me, makes me stronger,” he responded. “Friedrich Nietzsche. Except, we did die.”

“And then we lived.”

Joshua smiled. “Yes. I like reading his works. Thank you.”

“Always, my only.”

He nodded; nothing more needed to be said on that matter, at least not in words. “How about we try that again?”

Voldemort drew him to his feet and led him off to the dining room. Famul had food on the table before either of them had the chance to ask, but that only made sense given their location. Once they were comfortably seated and tucking in his lover said, “Karkaroff fled at the conclusion of the tournament. I know where he is because I can track him at any time though his Dark Mark. He did well for himself in the intervening years, but that won’t be enough to save him, especially now that he is no longer the headmaster of Durmstrang.”

Joshua nodded. “Too many people know for him to be useful. I might be tempted to just say let him go and live in fearful misery, but he did betray you. The code dictates—” He stopped, thoughtful. “Did he even join you willingly?”

Voldemort shrugged. “He was one of those who assumed I would prevail. He joined to be on the winning side, and on the side which would allow him to be a bit deviant.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I probably don’t want to know, but I probably also should. Deviant?”

“Karkaroff is a competent wizard but master of nothing. He’s also a coward. If he had a bit more spine and nerve I expect he would be a bully. As it stands he very much liked amusing himself with muggles at attack sites, using potions to make them compliant as he took his pleasure of them. I imagine if he had been able to control it the imperius curse would have been a favorite of his. By the standards of pure-blood society this is deviant because it’s like associating oneself with filth. The rape is somewhat incidental in their minds as muggles are often thought of as nothing more than human-looking animals.”

Joshua sighed, and a moment later conjured up some parchment along with quill and ink. After jotting down Karkaroff’s name he said, “Has he been staying put?”

“Yes.”

“What about Bellatrix? Do you simply plan to AK her, arrange an accident, arrange for her to be captured, or to make an example of her?” he asked, jotting down her name as well.

“That is partially up to you,” Voldemort replied. “Do you want to see for yourself how she responds to stepping up as my equal? Or would you rather just be done with a potentially serious issue?”

Voldemort knew her far better than he ever could. The code did not exactly cover this issue, though it might if she reacted badly to his presence. Was it better to preemptively deal with the situation, or should he stick to the code and see how it played out? Would she have the bollocks to actually attempt to harm him? He shook his head slightly; as tempting as it was to just get rid of her, that path led to personal corruption. “We see what happens. What about Lucius? He had one of your Horcruxes and actually used it against purpose. Granted, that worked out brilliantly for me, but that isn’t technically an excuse for what he did.”

“He’s lucky I was unable to ask him about that until after my rebirth and having found you again,” Voldemort said. “Had I still been in that state of mind and had it been destroyed. . . . I did leave orders with him to use the diary in the event I went missing for any length of time. His idea and my idea of that obviously differ quite drastically, but he did follow orders.”

“Then I’ll leave him off the list. Speaking of which. . . . Now I know you were mad at the time, but the only Horcrux that could function semi-independently was the diary. What purpose was there in having Bellatrix store one for you? The others were hidden normally.”

The response he got was that of Voldemort looking slightly embarrassed. “I have no excuse.”

Joshua arched a brow briefly, then moved along. “We’ll worry about Dumbledore later, and his little Order members, most of whom would likely be useless without him, and generally useless with him. So, off the top of my head that leaves land acquisition, law changes, and my personal revenge. We have a compact of self rule so long as we leave the muggles alone, and it’s obvious the British government hasn’t bothered to enforce penalties against us. I’m not sure they’d hand over title to large tracts of land, though. Might be easier to just steal it out from under them, but they’d probably realize what we’d done. Unless, perhaps, we carved out territory in the middle of one of the national parks.”

“That will be a longer term project, as will the laws.”

“So that leaves my personal revenge.”

“Your whale of a cousin is a drug dealer. He’s almost clever in where he finds places to hide his supply around that house. He tapes packets to the backs of drawers, the undersides of things. . . . But according to his memories he’s a small time dealer. Still, an anonymous telephone call to the muggle police might produce interesting results.”

He grinned. “It would be nice to see him get what he deserves for once. That might even be enough. If that got all over the neighborhood then Vernon and Petunia couldn’t begin to claim they were normal. And perhaps gossip around the office wouldn’t hurt either. No matter what their reputations would be damaged. But we’d need to do it quickly.”

“Naturally,” Voldemort said dryly. “How about we go scout out a place we can watch from, then make a phone call?”

A short time later, relatively speaking, they had ghosted through the house—Petunia never even realized they were there—verifying that Dudley did indeed have drugs stashed in various places around the home, and they were settled in waiting for the police to arrive. And if Dudley was true to form about arriving home for a huge lunch he might even get there in time to be the grand star of the show.

In point of fact he did, swaggering up the walk like he owned the world and entering the house with a shout of, “Mum! I’m hungry!”

Not five minutes later two police cars quietly pulled up and parked. The first pair of officers flitted off to the back of the house while the other two approached the front door, an alsation beside them, and knocked loudly. It was opened a minute later by Petunia, who looked displeased. She started to say something—most likely cutting—then snapped her mouth shut on seeing the uniforms. After a moment she said, “Yes?”

“Ma’am, we have a search warrant,” the taller officer stated, holding up some paperwork for her to look at.

Joshua stuffed his knuckles into his mouth to keep from laughing out loud as Petunia’s face puckered up. “Surely there’s some kind of mistake,” she insisted. “We’re a decent, normal, law-abiding family!”

“Ma’am, please step back. We need to search the premises. If you interfere or attempt to stop us you will be placed under arrest. Now, may we come in?”

Petunia started wringing her hands and stepped back, allowing them entry, and shortly the door closed, cutting off their view. Joshua and Voldemort immediately disillusioned themselves and moved to one of the windows of the house. It being day the curtains were still open so they had an excellent view, at least of the ground floor sitting room. His aunt was seated on one of the sofas, still wringing her hands, and Dudley had been pulled away from his meal to sit with her. The two officers who had gone around the back were now in the house and two of them were keeping an eye on the Dursleys.

“Mum,” Dudley whined, “what’s going on? I’m hungry and they won’t let me eat.”

“It’s all a terrible mistake, Diddykins. Once they’re gone I’ll take you out to a restaurant, all right? Anywhere you like,” she promised.

They were forced to wait a half hour before the other two officers wandered in, each carrying large plastic bags containing other plastic bags, those labeled, with smaller bags inside them, those containing various powders and pills. Joshua had to prevent himself from laughing again.

“Dudley Dursley, you are under arrest for suspicion of drug trafficking. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence.”

He lost what was being said at that point due to Petunia’s shrill voice ringing out in protest, but Dudley was most certainly handcuffed as a second officer spoke to him directly about his rights, and another set about trying to calm his aunt to little effect. A glance around the exterior of the house showed that nearby neighboring housewives were starting to gather, heads inclined toward each other and shooting looks at the police vehicles. They all gasped when Dudley was led out of the house and began gossiping even more furiously. Petunia was still shrilling away at the top of her lungs, but the second she spotted her neighbors the volume dropped abruptly and drastically.

‘I think I’m going to drop a few hints to our lovely neighborhood gossips,’ he said, then took off at a run, only becoming visible once he was safely out of general line of sight. An apple was conjured up, which he took a bite from, and he sauntered over to the housewives with a faint smile on his face. “Did you see that?” he said in a scandalized tone. “Those evidence bags had drugs in them. I wonder if they’re going to arrest him for assault, too. All those poor kids in the neighborhood. . . .” He shook his head sadly and had another bite.

“Drugs?” one of them stage-whispered. “Oh my. And you know, my poor Timmy came home one day all beaten up, money gone. He swore it was the Dursley boy, but when I called them to complain they said it was that nephew of theirs. Timmy swears it wasn’t.”

“Hasn’t the nephew been gone for a while? How could be possibly be doing any of that if he’s not even around?”

“Didn’t you hear? It was in the papers. The nephew was murdered recently. They found his body in the tunnel.”

Joshua arched a brow. This was news to him. “No,” he breathed. “Did they really? Then it couldn’t have been him. And besides, that doesn’t explain the bags and bags of drugs they found in the house. I overheard one of the officers say a lot of it was found in Dursley’s bedroom. Just what has he been doing around here? I hope he goes to jail for a long time.”

As soon as the gossip rose to even more furious heights he slipped away quietly, walking off down the street while finishing his apple. Voldemort met him at the intersection with a smirk and the two of them continued on, this time to the nearest police station. A few minutes of maneuvering and placement of tracking charms saw them done, so they returned home to listen in. Dudley, once brought into one of the interrogation rooms, was crying like a baby. Because he was caught? Or because he was hungry?

He was not yet of age so he was simply left there from what they could tell. Petunia would obviously have to call Vernon and get him to leave work early so one or both of them could be present. Given that they set up a series of parchment and quills and tied the charms into them; they could record anything of interest from the various rooms of the station, leaving Joshua and Voldemort to get on with their lives.

“Now that they’re out of the way,” Voldemort said, “let us talk of introducing you to the Death Eaters. You will need a name.”

He bit his lip, partly in annoyance. He was terribly attached to his name. If he was going to use an alias it would need to be something of meaning to him. Joshua let his mind wander back over the years, considering and discarding many an option, until finally something struck him as being near perfect. “Locus,” he said firmly.

His lover gave him a somewhat disbelieving look. “I trust there is some kind of logic behind that.”

Joshua leaned in and kissed Voldemort, then sat back. “Naturally. Aside from the fact that people might mishear it and assume Locust, well, _you_ are my locus. It’s in honor of you. _A center or source, as of activities or power_ ,” he quoted. “You’ve been my locus, time and time again.”

A slow smile spread across his lover’s lips. “You always know what to say. And I approve. Lord Locus you shall be.”


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 13-18 May 2011
> 
> Not going heavy into the Dark Order. It’s only partially relevant to the purpose of this story, which is, in the end, about Joshua and Voldemort dealing with Dumbledore. I’m trying not to overcomplicate things, which is something I always struggle with. I’ve already deleted a lot that I started with because it was _way too complicated and totally unnecessary_ (it was also really cool, but that doesn’t justify leaving it in) _._ Sex fades to black. I am just not in the damn mood to write those scenes, and anyway, it’s always been my policy not to get really detailed, unless it _made sense to do so_ , and in this case, it just doesn’t. So please, use those vivid imaginations I know you all have. (This chapter is kind of weird... it went all over the place.)

Karkaroff was hiding out in a remote area of Poland. No doubt he thought that since his master had yet to come for him he was safe, though not safe enough to rejoin the greater world. A mistake on his part no matter how one looked at it. Voldemort and Joshua simply released a colourless, odorless sleeping gas (even though their target was assumed to already be asleep), waited for it to take effect, and tore down the man’s wards. All that time spent on curse breaking came in handy.

Voldemort took care of securing his faithless minion as Joshua scoured the house for anything of importance or value. After that they returned to headquarters and tossed Karkaroff in a warded cell, minus anything except a robe to cover him. “We’ll bring him in when I introduce you,” Voldemort commented, then led Joshua to the meeting hall. There he produced another chair—almost throne-like—for Joshua’s use. “Ready?”

Joshua shot his lover a sidelong look which made Voldemort shift minutely. “Yes,” he said with a smirk.

Voldemort waved him to one of the chairs and then called a house-elf. “Tell Lucius to come to me.”

The elf bowed low and popped away, and Voldemort took the other chair. ‘I expect that once I’m done with my opening amusements that Bellatrix will decide she needs to kill you.’

‘Not the least bit surprising. But she does need to actually act first,’ he responded, pulling the hood of his robes up to shadow his face. ‘I have only ever murdered one person, after all.’

Voldemort scoffed. ‘I hardly think that counts. It was an act of mercy and you know it. Killing Bellatrix will at least let you know how you feel about the whole concept.’

‘I suppose so.’ He shuttered his expression when the door opened.

Malfoy entered and walked quickly up to the dais, dropped into a bow, then said, “You called, my lord.”

‘He’s well trained,’ Joshua commented. ‘Barely even appeared to notice me.’

“Yes. Your arm, Lucius.” Moments later Voldemort was pressing his fingers against the Dark Mark, calling his ‘faithful’ to him. Malfoy stepped back once Voldemort was done and simply stood there, waiting, his eyes focused on some spot on the wall behind the chairs.

‘Very well trained,’ he added approvingly. ‘I assume he can think for himself?’

‘Yes. He generally gets the job done. You probably remember his father from school.’

‘Did he ever join you?’

‘No. I gathered up my group once I returned and continued recruiting from there, but Abraxas never seemed interested.’

‘So what do you think Bellatrix will do?’

‘Perhaps a sneak attack.’

He would have to use a few charms to heighten his senses, then. No sense giving her more of an advantage than necessary. The question was when she would act. He came back to attention—though his expression had never once wavered—when all the Death Eaters were assembled.

Voldemort rose and took a step forward. “Greetings, my faithful. I have a few things to say today. The first of that is to remind you all of our purpose. What we do we do”—he paused significantly—“for love. For love of our magic, our world, and our traditions. For love of our families and children. To try to keep ourselves from the taint of muggles who rush ever forward simply because they can, never stopping to question whether or not they should. Cultures are assimilated and destroyed. Heritage and traditions are thrown away like stinking corpses in favor of the latest new thing. That is why we have a new motto, my faithful.” Voldemort turned and brandished his wand, using it to carve words into the smooth grey stone of the back wall.

Joshua caught the message from his lover’s mind.

Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil. 1

Voldemort turned back to the Death Eaters and _smiled_ at them. “I want each and every one of you to think on that. I want all of you to decide just what you’re willing to do.” He focused suddenly on Lucius. “You love your wife, your son?”

“Yes, my lord,” Lucius replied quietly.

“Love them enough to die so that they might live?”

Lucius nodded.

“Love them enough to kill so that they might live?”

Lucius nodded again.

“What about the rest of you? There must be someone or something that brought you here, something you want to protect with all the tools at your disposal. Something we all share in common, one way or another. A united purpose. Some of you cower before me, and yes, there is excellent reason for that. But what makes you stand up, proud to be here, willing to fight? Where does your vision of the future intersect with all these others?” Voldemort paused, letting that sink in, then said, “One might say Dumbledore is one thing, and you’d be right. But we must also consider the laws we live under. Ridiculous, unfair laws which we break without a second thought. Laws which should be stricken. Corrupt officials who steal from our people, who must be bribed to do the right thing. Think about it.”

Voldemort returned to his seat. “Next. I’m sure you’re wondering who sits at my side. Lord Locus, if you will. . . .”

Joshua slipped his hood back, a faint smirk twisting his lips, amused when certain parties in the crowd shifted in surprised recognition.

“I know, it has been a long time since some of you have seen him. He is more than my right hand, he is my equal. His voice and my voice are one and the same. Do not forget, lest you remember why you cower. Now, we have someone who has betrayed us. He will answer to that betrayal today. Lucius, Antonin, go to the cells and retrieve the prisoner there.”

Both men bowed and slipped away, returning several minutes later with Karkaroff.

“Look upon him, my faithful. A coward who refused to uphold our brotherhood. He sniveled in court, names of his fellows slipping from his lips in an attempt to avoid Azkaban. You remember, do you not, Rookwood? This is the man who led to your capture. Rosier, he gave the name of your son. He gave yours, Dolohov, and yours, Mulciber, and yours, Travers. Would any of you like to show Karkaroff just what you think of what he did? Do feel free. I am most interested to see how you explain it to him.”

The next half hour was very educational for Joshua. It was amazing what people could do when they were severely pissed off and without a leash. He made mental notes the whole time, knowing he would have to face off against Bellatrix soon enough—very soon if the look on her face was anything to go by. She was just as unhinged as Tom had warned him of. He came back from his musing when Karkaroff breathed his last.

A house-elf was called to dispose of the body, then Voldemort said, “A reminder to any here who would think of betrayal. I want all of you to begin thinking about what needs to change. The next time I call you to a meeting I expect you will all have ideas to share. For now, you may go about your business.”

The attack came a week later.

Bellatrix had worked herself up into a fine froth from what he could see. Naturally, as he knew the workings of the Dark Mark he had kept a close eye on where she was at all times and knew she had been lurking about, spying on him with crazed eyes and murder in her heart. Joshua had to wonder if she had even managed to twist the organization’s new motto, deluded herself into thinking that her ‘love’ of Tom was all the justification she needed for slitting his throat—but not before torturing him first.

So he knew she was sneaking up behind him that day as he was headed toward the upper reaches of the building. He knew she was there as he passed into a generally disused section of that floor. Joshua waited until he could feel the spell she had cast to take one step to the side and turn. “Bellatrix. It seems your aim was a bit off. And you are considered a skilled Death Eater for what reason?”

She simply stared at him for a moment, then shot another spell, just barely missing his head. She did not even speak, which to Joshua meant she was either so angry that she could not, or for once in her life did not see the point in crazed banter. Somewhere in her addled brain she may well have the idea that obsession equaled love. That did not improve her aim, however. Joshua let her make her attempts for another minute, then sighed slightly and twitched his fingers. The trap he had laid previously out sprang to life, neatly capturing the witch and knocking her unconscious.

‘Nice work,’ Voldemort complimented him. ‘She always was incapable of believing that anyone could ever best her—aside from me, that is.’

‘Mm. I admit to being at a bit of a loss. Kill her now, or make an example of her in front of the others.’

‘Well, we already did make an example of Karkaroff,’ Voldemort pointed out.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘You made an example of him. I just sat there and looked pretty. Well, in all fairness, I suppose I should make an example of her, but I really can’t be bothered. People will learn.’ He eyed her still form with distaste, took up his wand, and wordlessly cast the killing curse. And, after tucking his wand away, he neatly sidestepped the body and headed off to meet his lover.

“I’m sure someone will find her,” he commented once he was in the same room. “They might even wonder what she did and how to avoid the same consequences.”

Voldemort gave him a long look. “How do you feel about it?”

Joshua smiled, remembering a long ago conversation. “It’s no different than what we’ve done our whole lives, just a little more final. No, I’m not entirely okay that I had to do it, but it had to be done. We can’t afford to have people twisting your words to suit their own ends, with whatever false rationalization they come up with, to in the end deliberately disobey. It’s obvious the only thing she cared about was her obsession with you, and everyone else could go hang. I sincerely doubt she ever cared about your message. Either way, no matter how stupid it sounds, we’ve both died for each other. I wasn’t going to let someone like her get in the way.

Voldemort nodded, though his eyes told Joshua that his lover would no doubt be watching him carefully for any more episodes, and said, “We should move on to discussing Dumbledore, then. I have been, while we were separated, working on a book, though I would never see it published under my own name.”

“You could always imperius that disgusting reporter—what’s her name?—into claiming it as her own work,” he suggested. “Would it be enough, though? He can lie like a champion, and way too many people trust him. One grandfatherly smile and the twinkle in his eyes would make most people ignore the evidence.”

His lover looked deeply thoughtful. “We could attempt to lay a geis upon him to tell only the complete truth, but cornering him long enough to do so would be quite a trick.”

“House-elves?”

“Perhaps. If we could work up a reasonable plan we could release the book and lay the geis. Eventually Dumbledore would either shut himself away or run. We could even try marking him with a variant of the Dark Mark, so he would be unable to truly hide from us. My only concern with a geis is his knowledge of the ritual.”

“If we had him cornered though to lay a geis, could we not secure any documents he has and expurgate any related knowledge of _how_ from his mind? He would know he used a ritual to kill people and steal their magic, but not exactly how. Although, actually, having anyone know he stole magic and created false muggle-borns is just asking for another kind of prejudice to erupt. Change the alleged purpose of the ritual? Maybe to trying to siphon their magic for his own? People do see him as incredibly powerful, after all.”

Voldemort nodded slowly.

“Famul,” he called, and was rewarded with his house-elf popping in a second later. “I have some questions for you.”

* * *

Dumbledore, self-proclaimed genius, was not very smart. Or rather, he was so smart he assumed that no one could ever pierce his genius and trickery. He liked slight of hand and deception, impressive structures which were, in reality, nothing more than smoke and mirrors. It was this hubris—and the help of some house-elves—which allowed for Joshua and Voldemort to quite nearly waltz into the man’s bedroom and do whatever they pleased.

Shortly after they arrived Dumbledore was fully under the influence of the Draught of Living Death to ensure he would not inconveniently wake up and interfere with their plans. And as satisfying as it would have been to just kill the man—and he could see that his lover was restraining himself with great effort—they needed to destroy him. As someone had once said, there are worse things than death.

Joshua and two elves stood guard while Voldemort plundered the depths of the old man’s mind. And even then they were sweeping the room for anything of interest. It was a long two hours before his lover came back to normal consciousness, his face drawn and weariness in his posture. Voldemort pointed off to one side, at an innocuous enough table. “Behind it, there’s a hidden compartment. Dumbledore found it inconvenient after a while to keep having to return to his home so he brought his things here.”

The elves scurried over and began investigating, moving the table and quickly enough finding Dumbledore’s secret stash. Hubris again, to not take into account how house-elf magic differed from human magic. Joshua quickly flipped through the journals and books, disgusted with what he was seeing. “Is this the only stash?”

“Yes, oddly enough. I need to rest for a short time before I can start removing and altering his memories, now that I’ve located them. And I’ll probably have to rest again before laying the geis.”

Joshua frowned and ran a hand across his forehead, then rubbed his face. They had shared the body. He could focus his power through Tom.

“Maybe, yes,” Voldemort replied to his unspoken thoughts. “We’ll try it.”

Thus they did, sharing the load nearly equally as Voldemort used his much greater experience and finesse in dealing with the old man’s memories. And again, after they had both rested, to lay upon him a geis—this time supported even by the house-elves—before they slipped away, a slow-acting antidote having been infused into Dumbledore’s veins and a mark left on him which he should not, in theory, ever notice. Back at the house they moved as one to their suite and into the bathing room. Joshua absently sent magic at the tub to start the water running and began to strip, stopping when Voldemort came up behind him to wrap his arms around Joshua’s body. “The first step—complete.”

Joshua exhaled and leaned his head back against his lover’s shoulder. “Soon.” He squirmed slightly when a kiss was pressed against his neck, then resumed stripping when he was released, gladly and gratefully easing into the then full tub. Voldemort slipped in beside him and they both just relaxed for a time.

Eventually his lover reached over for a washcloth and soap, then began the sensuous process of very thoroughly cleaning Joshua. He was half hard before Voldemort even got close, but that changed very quickly. His lover did not even give him a chance to return the favor, instead running the cloth over himself quickly and efficiently, then tossing it to one side. Joshua welcomed when he was pulled out of the water and hastily dried off, then pushed onto the bed in the next room. He smiled in anticipation at the hungry look on Voldemort’s face.

* * *

“Step two,” Voldemort said with a smirk, “has been initiated. Skeeter has been given the command to see the book released.”

“And we can just sit back for a while as all hell breaks loose,” Joshua said with satisfaction. “I do so like the idea of winning a battle of the wits against that senile old crackpot. I think . . . in celebration of a book being released, a book should be burned.”

“I agree. There should be no evidence for anyone to find of that ritual. With any luck it was the only copy. That it is handwritten suggests so. If not, we shall have to hope for the best. Once he flees the truth we shall hunt him down.”

“And then?” he questioned. “Do we kill him then, or. . . ?”

“I confess I had not given that too much thought. My plans are nebulous. So often plans are destroyed before they even have a chance to begin. I was considering having one of the dementors administer the Kiss. He would technically still be alive and they could keep trying to find him to force out more truth, but we could prevent him from being found.”

He nodded, seeing the possibilities. “Then we could kill the body after a while, make it look like suicide. We’d just have to figure out a good place for him to be found. And once that’s over . . . we could get on with things. Fixing the ministry, finding more land, figuring out what to do about the security risks muggle-borns pose.” He paused, then grinned.

“What is it?”

“Maybe we could call upon the tales of old,” Joshua said. “Changeling children. Except there wouldn’t be any fae involved. Substitute orphaned muggle babies for muggle-borns. But it would only work if we could tell at birth, not some time years later when they first show accidental magic. I admit, I don’t know a thing about how the names are recorded.”

“Rookwood does,” Voldemort informed him. “We can figure something out. It’s an interesting idea. Even more so if we can safely use potions to alter the children to resemble their new parents, sort of like a blood adoption. It’s too bad Severus was—” He shook his head. “I have other minds at hand of that bent I can tap if necessary. You and I did very well, though, so we may not need to.” He shot a speculative look at Joshua. “And you do have the most interesting way of looking at things at times.”

He felt unaccountably like blushing for a moment. After a second he simply smiled and nodded. His lover was simply telling the truth. “Do you think the Death Eaters will come up with good ideas, or will they be spouting elitist pure-blood garbage?”

Voldemort actually sighed and ran his hands over his face, ending up with his chin cradled on his palms. “I have no idea. I tried to get through to them. I realize that they probably have no idea where this is coming from, this change. Perhaps the older ones do, having seen that you have returned—I don’t know. It isn’t as though it ever once crossed my mind to ask their opinions of you. They saw me as I was, then later as a crazed man, and now this. The newer Death Eaters, though. . . . I expect some of them to think I’ve gone soft and attempt to rebel, even with the example of Karkaroff’s death. We shall simply have to wait and see. And, in the end, if there are those ones as I expect, I must deal with them. It is possible they would never have come to this point without a leader. They may have remained ever in the background, wanting, desiring, yet not acted. And having brought them out it would be my responsibility to see that they would not become like a rogue Bellatrix.”

Joshua laid his hand on Voldemort’s knee. “We’ll handle it together. As much as I wish I had never had to leave you, it did prompt you to dig deeper. Without that we would never know the depths of Dumbledore’s depravity. In that respect the pain was worth it to me—even dying. Who knows how they work”—he waved a hand vaguely up toward the ceiling—“but we’re together now. You’ve done a lot of evil, Tom, but you’re making up for it. I’ve done evil. We’ve both suffered greatly, almost as if that suffering was pre-payment for now. Perhaps to make us appreciate each other even more, to see with better clarity what to do. You have always believed in me, and I will always believe in you. Whatever must be done we’ll do it together. If there must be deaths my hands will be as bloody as yours. I know it was not technically my fault, yet I cannot help but feel responsibility for you going insane. I knew when I went back the second time what would happen to you and I burned. I was assailed by doubts. I knew nothing I could try would change anything, and I tried anyway because you were the most important thing in my life. I couldn’t not try. And—” He broke eye contact and swallowed hard. “I’m getting off track. I’m not sure where all this is coming from.”

Voldemort said not a word, he just pulled Joshua to him and wrapped him in an embrace.

* * *

Over the course of the next few days the general tone of public opinion went from disbelief to suspicion to outright demanding when it came to the alleged actions of one Albus Dumbledore. They so wished they could witness things personally; as it was they were forced to rely on what little the children of Death Eaters could report back. Dumbledore was particularly scarce about the school, it seemed, and the head table during meals was eerily silent when he was present, almost as if the other staff members were prevented from having it out with him in public. Though, it was possible they simply did not feel that hashing out the truth in the middle of the Great Hall was a wise idea.

It took a full week before word came back from various sources—of which Lucius was one—that the ministry ‘invited’ Dumbledore to come talk with them. They knew right then that a decision had to be made. Did they kidnap him before he was supposed to show up, or did they wait to see what would happen? Would the old man do a runner? What choice did he have? Not go? Go and say nothing? Or would he alter people’s memories to reflect what he wanted?

Joshua shared a rueful look with his lover. “We didn’t think of that.”

Voldemort heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He might not be able to. Technically that’s deception. Saying nothing isn’t lying, it’s refusing to answer, and silence in itself is a type of answer or truth. Altering memories, though, and giving them false ones is lying.”

He couldn’t quite suppress a sense of skepticism that it might be that simple. “Can we afford to take that risk?” he asked, tapping his chest absently with one finger. “If he does manage to alter their memories, would an anonymous tip spur the ministry into checking for the obliviation charm—if Lucius brought it up to Fudge? And then we kidnap him?”

“I think that’s a workable plan. We will need to work fast, though. Perhaps a gift from Lucius to Fudge, a little bauble which would allow us to know if the man has had his memories altered if and when Dumbledore shows up for that chat.”

“Something he can wear which will record what spells are used against him?”

“Capture the echo of the magic, to be deciphered, like using Priori Incantatum on a wand, except at a distance.”

They looked at each other and nodded. Within a day, well before the meeting was scheduled, Lucius was given a set of cufflinks which displayed the crest of the most prominent family in Fudge’s ancestry. It was a flattering gift and held little other value aside from the precious metals used, so the chances of it being considered a bribe was negligible. That alone made it mildly suspicious.

Even so, they learned very quickly that Fudge knew and practiced rather a lot of strange spells.

The day of the meeting came and Dumbledore actually showed up. Joshua was almost shocked by that knowledge, but his lover expected it. And as much as the restriction of having to wait for another to act chafed that was exactly what they did, eyeing the monitoring crystal linked to Fudge’s cufflinks with a certain amount of cynicism.

Joshua huffed when it happened and Voldemort looked both smug and annoyed. “Figures he would try it. He is so convinced of his superiority, so blind,” Voldemort said distastefully.

“But it remains to be seen how successful he was,” Joshua pointed out, then called, “Famul.” When the elf had appeared he said, “Tell Lucius to come.”

Lucius duly arrived and was instructed, then sent off. He returned several hours later with a faintly grim expression. “My lords, I convinced Fudge that something was off about his memories and escorted him to a healer, where it was found that while none of his memories had been removed, they had been muddled. I can only assume that Dumbledore did attempt obliviation and something caused it to go wrong.”

Joshua tilted his head toward his lover while still keeping his gaze steady on Lucius. ‘Either we worded that geis badly or he is more powerful than we anticipated. Still, he was not entirely successful.’

‘Mm.’ “What was Fudge’s reaction to knowing his memories had indeed been tampered with?”

“Incensed, sir,” was the ready reply. “His intention of questioning Dumbledore about the validity of that book of Skeeter’s was thwarted. He is now more than ever convinced that Dumbledore is evil and must be sent to Azkaban. After all, the old man reacted in no way familiar to him, such as that of a guilty man willing to make deals—”

‘Bribes,’ he said, mentally rolling his eyes.

“—and his actions say much about his guilt. Fudge has ordered the DMLE to capture Dumbledore and drag him back in chains. He outright stated that he would prefer Azkaban over the veil simply because it might teach the old man some humility.” A faint sense of amusement radiated off Lucius at that.

“Well done, Lucius,” he said. “You may go.”

Lucius bowed respectfully and quit the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

“I believe that’s our cue,” Voldemort said simply.

* * *

‘Why would he come—oh, right.’

Voldemort favored him with a dry look. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, my only.’

Joshua made a face. ‘Pardon me for not quite reaching your level of deviousness,’ he replied with mock defensiveness.

Voldemort cracked a faint smile and jerked his chin toward the building. ‘Shall we?’

‘We shall.’ He promptly disillusioned himself, cast spells to hide his scent and any sounds he would make, and skulked into the building, knowing that his lover would be nearby and similarly disguised. There seemed to be no one on the ground floor and a quick check of heat sources led, not upstairs, but below, so there had to be a cellar.

‘Over here.’

Joshua followed the mental pull down a hallway, then around a corner. There, through an arch into what looked to be a kitchen, and nearly invisible in the shadow behind a staircase, was a door. ‘It’ll probably squeak like hell,’ he thought, then used a few diagnostic spells to see if there were any wards to contend with. Once he was satisfied he carefully, slowly, loosened and removed the hinge-pins, gratified when he realized that his lover was using magic to hold the door steady. A bare minute later the door had been floated away and noiselessly set down on the floor.

The staircase was ill lit and looked like it would groan under more weight than a cat, so Joshua was pleased when he felt Voldemort casting spells to envelop the descent in a shroud of silence. Down they went, silent as the grave, into a scene painted in blood. Dumbledore was breathing harshly, but had a triumphant look on his face as he stared at the corpse of his brother.

‘Tidying up any possible loose ends, I must assume,’ he commented.

Voldemort’s response was to nail Dumbledore with a stunner at short range, the spells disguising him falling away like silk slithering down his body. ‘I am tempted to just kill him now, but that can wait a bit longer. Help me get this potion into him and we’ll be away momentarily. Someone will find the body, I’m sure.’

Shortly thereafter Dumbledore was tucked away in a very special cell—long enough for a dementor to be called, anyway—and was administered the Kiss without further ado. A wide grin appeared on Joshua’s face, despite the fact that seeing someone be Kissed was indeed as horrifying as advertised. The grin turned into shock when a phoenix flamed into the room and trilled melodiously, the song sounding both exultant and frightening. The very fact that Joshua was more comforted than damaged by it told him he had—mostly—stayed on the correct side of the line. A glance at Voldemort showed a rather pained expression, but he did not seem to be in any quantifiable pain. The bird’s song came to a neat ending and it stared intently at them each, eyes unblinking, then flamed away.

Joshua cleared his throat and said, “All right, that I was not expecting. Come to think of it, I seem to have curious blank spot on this subject.” He shot a questioning look at Voldemort.

“I always thought it was strange that he had one. I have to assume he found a way to bind one to him to enhance his reputation. We both know just how unscrupulous he was. And frankly, much of what anyone knows about phoenixes is pure conjecture. Legend might be based in truth, but it is also a breeding ground for falsehoods and exaggeration.”

He hummed slightly, nodding. Was there much point in worrying about it? The bird did not seem to be inclined to harm them, but rather appeared pleased it was free, regardless of the fact that those who freed it were not exactly paragons of Light. He waited as Voldemort summoned a house-elf and gave it very explicit instructions regarding the soulless Dumbledore, then joined him on the walk back upstairs. “I suppose that Lucius, being so ‘close’ to Fudge, can inform us of the best time to end this.”

“Agreed.”

* * *

1  Friedrich Nietzsche, _Beyond Good and Evil_ , Aphorism 153


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Written** : 18-24 May 2011
> 
> I hate getting to this stage of a story sometimes. You want things over and done with, but you shy back from doing it, your mind goes blank again (or mine often does, anyway), and you fret and waste time and generally do nothing productive. I had so many notes for this story, a huge timeline set up in an HTML file so I could refer to it at a moment’s notice... and the one thing I never actually did back then was figure out the ending.

Joshua was shocked to realize over the next few weeks that the subtle flash of amusement displayed by Lucius was not a fluke. The man had a genuine sense of humor and he obviously relished telling the tales of Fudge’s efforts to track down Dumbledore. Granted, it was mainly his eyes which leaked that information, as the man’s face was generally the usual stoic mask of a Slytherin, but he was nevertheless laughing on the inside. He had a certain dry way of recounting these episodes that, had Joshua not had strict control over himself, would have seen him reduced to helpless laughter. He definitely understood why Voldemort was almost fond of the man, or as much as he could hold genuine feeling about anyone aside from Joshua himself.

Fudge was in a pother, naturally. He hated being made a fool of, especially by the man he had so often solicited advice from. That the aurors could not find Dumbledore no matter what they tried was driving Fudge mad. Even his most trusted lackeys were getting tired of the fat fool. The media had been all over the report of Aberforth Dumbledore’s murder and were placing the blame squarely on Albus. It only made Fudge more flustered and crazed, shouting more ineffective orders as a way to be seen doing something.

‘I wonder what would be a fitting end for him. I know you’ve gotten a lot of use out of him, but for him to abruptly do an about-face on policy would be rather suspicious. Perhaps he could have a nasty accident?’

‘I’m sure we can come up with something appropriate,’ Voldemort responded. ‘And ghastly.’

Joshua’s mouth twitched. ‘Since we’re getting close how about we call a quick meeting and see what the minions have come up with, if anything?’

Voldemort nodded slightly and gestured toward Lucius’s arm, and the man promptly hitched up his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark. Within moments the call had been sent out, and within minutes the assorted Death Eaters were gathered to hear the words of their lords. “So, my faithful, I had given you all a task. If you have not yet already you will write down your ideas and give them to Lucius. When you are done you may leave. We will meet again later to discuss this.” A wave of his hand produced piles of parchment on one of the tables, along with quills and ink.

‘If nothing else this may give us an idea of which Death Eaters are no longer suited for this organization.’

‘Agreed.’ “Lucius, come to the study when this is completed,” Voldemort ordered, then rose and swept off, Joshua at his side. Once there Voldemort dropped into a seat and pursed his lips. “I have to wonder how many of them will bother to include their names.”

He hummed in amusement and sat down. “The ones who are convinced they’re writing down ideas you’re sure to support, no matter how misguided they may be. But. . . .” He tilted his head back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. “Perhaps some of them believed your speech. You are very persuasive, but old habits are hard to break.”

Voldemort muttered something under his breath, but Joshua caught it anyway via thoughts and laughed. “Poor you, with no choice at all. And here I thought I was every reason.”

His lover shot him a look which smoldered with lust and mock anger, then reached out and closed the minor distance by the expedient measure of grasping Joshua’s robe and hauling him near. The next thing he knew his mouth was being violated rather possessively and he was feeling shivers of delight race down his spine. He was a bit put out, however, when he was abruptly released, especially as he fell on his ass. Joshua aimed a glare up at Voldemort in response.

“Lucius will be here soon enough. I doubt you’d want him to see you like that.”

Joshua narrowed his eyes and stood up, retaking his seat with as much dignity as he could muster. He pretended to ignore what had just happened, purposely splitting his mental capacity so he could hide what he was really thinking about while still carrying on a conversation. When Lucius did arrive he just barely twitched his fingers and smirked internally when Voldemort shifted uncomfortably. It was probably a good thing the table hid what was happening as he did not think his lover would appreciate Lucius Malfoy noticing the erection that was gaining strength. Joshua let his ‘public’ mind fill with thoughts of taking that erection in his mouth and doing devilish things to it with his tongue.

Lucius placed a stack of parchment on the table and bowed slightly. “As you requested, my lords.”

Voldemort shifted again, then nodded. “Excellent. You may go.” He waited until the door was again closed to throw up some wards, then turned with a glare at Joshua. “You will pay for that.”

Joshua smirked. “I’d planned to, Tom. I may be a tease at times, but I always follow through,” he promised, then slipped off the chair onto his knees. “Right now? Right here?” he asked, sliding one hand along Voldemort’s thigh. “Or did you want to deal with that paperwork first?”

Voldemort’s eyes fairly glowed.

* * *

He eyed the soulless form of Dumbledore speculatively. It was obvious the assigned house-elf was doing an excellent job at keeping the body alive and tidy. He took one last look and headed out in search of Voldemort. He found him in the library, several books opened on the table in a halo before him. “Progress?”

Voldemort hummed in agreement, his eyes never leaving the pages of the book to his right even as he jotted down more notes. “I’m nearly done, actually. Have you found a place?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, then said, “Well, sort of. I was thinking . . . of our old hideaway, actually.”

Voldemort stopped writing and looked over at him, a faint degree of consternation on his face.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said hastily. “But look at it this way. That place is the site of some of our triumphs. Isn’t this one as well?”

Voldemort just kept staring at him, that same look on his face.

Joshua sat down and sighed lightly. “It was our home. It means a lot to me, but only because you were there with me. I’d hold a certain fondness for any place we might have lived together, but the actual place itself is beside the point to me. But if you really don’t like the idea I’ll find somewhere else—if it would taint your memories.”

“You disappeared from there,” Voldemort said simply.

Joshua suddenly felt so incredibly stupid, not to mention guilty. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s different for you, I know. I would prefer a different place.”

He nodded. “I do have a backup location in mind. I triangulated a point based on Hogwarts and two homes that Dumbledore owns. It seemed unnecessarily complicated, which is why it made sense,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “We can set up temporary wards, create the scene. . . .”

Voldemort smiled viciously, then turned his attention back to the books. “Soon.”

* * *

“This is quite brilliant,” he said admiringly, a gentle smile on his face. Tom always had been smarter than him, even if Joshua was often the one with bizarrely interesting ideas. “It looks so genuine!”

“Oh, you know,” his lover said casually. “A little of this, a little of that. . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if the old man would have tried it himself, secure in the knowledge that no one could ever pull the wool over his eyes.” He paused to let loose a smirk. “Especially not some Slytherins.”

“Oh, I’m sure that he believed that most people were only marginally more intelligent than the average turnip, thus justifying his ideas regarding his right to rule over us all like a shepherd over a flock of wayward sheep. Anyway, I forged a letter in his handwriting,” he said. “The usual garbage. He’s moving on to a better place, the next great adventure in another dimension, where people will be sure to recognize and bow down to his superior wisdom and brilliance, so on and so forth. I expect whoever finds it will believe every word of it.”

Voldemort smiled as he put the finishing touches on the ritual he had designed and stepped back to double-check his work. Several minutes later he nodded and called for a house-elf, who brought with it Dumbledore. The old man had been dressed up in the height of gaudy fashion and was sporting a bag with an extension charm on it, which was filled with various items which could easily be sold to those on the shadier side of the law for vast amounts of gold. They had debated actually including galleons, but in the end did not wish to part with any of their own and had no intention of trying to liberate someone else’s from Gringotts, thus the selection of highly illegal dark artifacts which actually served little useful purpose.

Dumbledore was dumped in the middle of the detailed and intricate diagram (drawn with the blood of a unicorn—they had been quite lucky to find one already dead and not yet consumed or rotted beyond use—and had every expectation that people would believe the old man had purposely killed one for his designs) and a good overdose of nicotine quickly saw Dumbledore quite dead. After all, magical sorts never did bother to check for much beyond potions and spells. All they would see was that Dumbledore apparently suffered from heart failure and write it off as the ritual pushing the old man’s body beyond what it was still capable of. It would also serve as a deterrent for any person foolish enough to consider trying the ritual themself, assuming anyone could make heads or tails of it in the first place. After dismissing the house-elf and stepping a fair distance away they crashed the wards in a horrible excess of magic and moved even farther away before disappearing entirely. Time would tell the results of their gambit.

Back at their nominal headquarters Voldemort went to tie up a few loose ends and Joshua headed for the meeting hall. A few minutes later Lucius was there, baring his Dark Mark, and a few minutes past that the Death Eaters were all assembled. “As stated before this is a meeting to discuss the results of the ideas you have all submitted,” he said, turning and moving toward one of the two throne-like chairs reserved for him and Voldemort. “We will—”

He never even knew what hit him.

After a blank period of velvety-dark unconsciousness he slowly awoke to the realization that Voldemort was torturing someone. It became much clearer in his somewhat foggy mind when he heard, “—to defy my will and cast the killing curse on Lord Locus because you thought I had been weakened by him and would return to normal with his death!?”

Joshua forced open his eyes to see his lover cursing one of the Death Eaters with some sort of flaying spell. And despite feeling unutterably weary he pushed himself up to his knees, then carefully stood up. Someone had tried to kill him. Why was he not in spirit form? Was this one of the powers of a Master of Death? He realized after a moment that his fingers had spread like claws, as though they were of their own accord ready to strangle someone—that Death Eater. The barest thought ripped the man in question away from Voldemort’s spell and saw his neck fitted between Joshua’s hands. “How dare you,” he rasped, fingers tightening with a strength only possible with the addition of his magic. The man—he now recognized him as Avery—desperately tried to remove the hands from his neck.

‘Joshua!’ slammed into his mind, his lover’s mental voice saturated with relief.

He allowed his gaze to flit over Avery’s shoulder, a cold smirk twisting his lips, before turning his attention back to his would-be killer. With a push he flung the man back toward his lover and stalked up to stand beside Voldemort. “I do believe he has made his position clear, and displayed his startling lack of intelligence,” he commented, then produced his wand. “Since you tried to kill me I think it’s only fair I return the favor.” A moment later most of the bones in Avery’s body had been pulverized. “But I won’t be so kind as to merely use the killing curse. Since you have no intelligence I expect you don’t need the excuse you have of a mind, do you.” Ignoring the moans of pain coming from Avery he cast the cruciatus, another cold smirk twisting his lips as the man tried and failed to react bodily; the only thing Avery could do was scream out his torment.

In the end Avery was reduced to a twitching vegetable. But even then Joshua was not kind. He merely opened further cuts on the body and watched as Avery bled out. “Famul!” he called, then instructed, “Remove the body—only the body.” And when the corpse was gone he cast spells to make the stain of blood permanent. Joshua looked up at the gathered Death Eaters and said, “A reminder. Every time you come here you’ll see this stain, this mark of shame, and remember.” With that he turned his back on them, very deliberately, and moved to his seat, taking it with grace. “Now, I believe we were about to have a meeting.”

Voldemort gave him a look, the barest hint of a smile, and joined him. “Let’s talk about the fate and future of the British wizarding world, starting with the fact that Dumbledore is dead.”

 

— **The End —**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, folks, that’s the end. However, I’m in that kind of mood, you know? If anyone reading would like to write a sequel to this story, I’d love to see it. You can shoot me a note for any details I’d prefer to be kept in, and I’d be happy to send a copy of the notes I have detailing ideas I had for the aftermath. And I'm not limiting this to a single person writing a sequel, so if more than one person decides they'd like to try, that's fine.


End file.
